


Light in the Dark

by nurfherder



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - Farm/Ranch, Anal Sex, Angst, Christmas, Consensual, Emotional Baggage, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Frottage, Hand Jobs, M/M, Masturbation, Mildly Dubious Consent, Mystery, Oral Sex, PTSD, Whump, Winter
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-01-10
Updated: 2013-06-30
Packaged: 2017-11-24 08:14:00
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 22
Words: 110,119
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/632320
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/nurfherder/pseuds/nurfherder
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p><i>If I had an orchard I’d work till I’m raw; If I had an orchard I’d work till I’m sore.</i><br/>Their mother’s murder unsolved, and their father ever distant in his quest to solve it, the brothers are left to pick up the tattered remains of their family when nothing is left but each other, a strange business man, and Winchester Orchard.<br/>AU</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Two Deaths and a Funeral

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> _Inspired by the song Helplessness Blues by The Fleet Foxes._

 

 

The police report taught Dean what it was like to grow up too soon. It’s hard to stay illusional about the death of your mother when you read it in such clinical writing. _Victim’s death ascertained to blunt force trauma of the temporal and occipital lobe. The skull is fractured, there are visible cerebral contusions, with several abrasions and lacerations of the skin. Metal fragments buried within tissue, and a mild spiral patterning apparent on the skin._ Dean later understood that this meant his mother was killed with a metal pipe. _Blood splatter at the site indicative of a struggle. Splatter against the entry-way wall and tiling indicates the victim was struck first in the temporal lobe, fell, was then struck in the occipital lobe, most likely by a right-handed assailant. Abraded contusions on wrists and back..._ there was a detailed listing of her bruises. The hardest part to read was at the end, describing the knife-carvings in her back and legs, almost bone deep and runic in nature. Carved after she had died and done with such detail that the killer must have spent at least an hour creating them. All while Sammy slept upstairs. And Dean and his father were out to see a movie. And then they came home. And the baby monitor was screaming. And John was screaming. And Dean stood and stared, and his father yelled at him to call 911. And he did. He didn’t know what to say.

“911 Emergency, how can I help you?”

“...”

“Hello?”

“...My mom is dead.”

He was four years old, almost five, but he somehow knew what his father, wailing inconsolably on the floor with his mother in his arms, did not. She was dead. And years afterward, Dean was still trying to believe that it wasn’t his fault. Still trying to avoid his father’s accusing eyes over the dining room table, even if he no longer lived at home. Even as he stared ahead at black asphalt in front of him, unable to afford a hotel room for the night and driving straight on through morning.

It was the first thing he thought of when he got the telephone call.

Sammy was on the line.

“Dean?”

“Yeah?”

“Dean, where have you been? They’ve been trying to get ahold of you.”

Dean flicked his eyes to his wrist watch, leaning against the Impala as he filled it with gas. People had, in fact, been trying to call him. But he didn’t recognize the numbers, and these days Dean didn’t answer for anyone less than Sam. “What’s up?”

Sam sighed on the other end of the line. And it was the sigh and the pause that got Dean’s attention, that had him standing up straighter, that made him press the phone closer to his ear. He knew. He knew, and he was waiting for Sam to say it.

“It’s Dad. There was a robbery--he’s dead.”

Dean was silent. He didn’t say anything. He couldn’t stop looking at the Impala. The gas nozzle clicked at him, its job complete. Sam said, “Are you there? Dean,” and all Dean could think of was his father’s eyes as he drove away from home, his red tail-lights the last thing John Winchester ever saw of his son. The car had been his gift to Dean--the first and last gift he would ever get from his father.

“Yeah, Sammy. I’m here.”

“I--I need you to come home, Dean.” There was a slight crack in his voice. “We’ve got to plan his funeral, and--the Department’s going to help, and they’re going to bury him with honors, Dean, but I--”

“Sam, I’m coming home.” Then, as an afterthought, “It’s going to be ok.”

And it must have helped, because Sam did sound relieved. He sounded like he was smiling, but Dean didn’t hear the rest of their conversation. He was responding and he had no idea what with. He was 400 miles from home, and he was sitting in the seat where his father should have been.

He and Sam were all that was left.

\------------------ 

John Winchester had been a very respected man in Bennington. Though he had lived with his sons in Paper Mill Village, just north-west of the city, everyone considered him one of their own. Which he was, or had been, before the incident. Mary Winchester’s death was not a secret--it was one of the very few unsolved murders in the town. Not to mention that the Campbells had been important, well-to-do figures in town society. There was some hubbub when Bennington’s favorite daughter married a boy from Kansas, but it settled when the couple decided to stay in Vermont and continue to run the orchard. John built a store shaped like a barn at the farm’s entrance to sell Mary’s pies, and they renamed the place Winchester Orchard. Tourists and natives began to come from all around; the pies couldn’t be made fast enough. John and Mary Winchester seemed the perfect, idyllic couple, growing into a family. And then hell paid a visit to their door.

The people of Bennington loved to see John Winchester in his uniform. They loved to know that a man, formerly so innocent, could rise up from the ashes and join the police force. They loved to see him on his feet. And almost every day, even a quarter-century after his wife’s murder, people still loved that they could stop him on the street and tell him just how sorry they were for his loss.

Twenty-five years, reminded of the pain. Dean knew he shouldn’t blame his father for never being able to let go. He knew he should feel a lot of things as he stared at the peoples’ faces around him, weeping as though John Winchester were their father. But as Dean and Sam sat shoulder to shoulder at the grave, neither one of them could cry a tear. Dean simply felt numb. He wasn’t even aware that rain was falling on his face until it became a torrent, gushing into the open ground before him, bouncing off the metal coffin as the guests cried out and opened umbrellas, some scurrying under the trees. Dean could barely hear the last call sign over the thunder, but he and Sam both jumped at sound of the rifle-fire. 21 Bells, and every shot seemed louder and louder, piercing his ear drums and shuddering his insides into nothingness. He closed his eyes, clenching his fists at his sides. The gun blasts went on for forever.

His brother’s hand was pressing against his own, and he looked up. The officers of his father’s troop had folded the flag, and one stood before him, the dampened flag held out between two white gloves. Slowly, Dean took it, barely hearing the officer’s words, “In memory of your father’s long and honorable service. We are so sorry for your loss.”

The wind whipped around them, and the officers departed, and the people departed, and it was just Sam and Dean, sitting cold in the fold-out metal chairs, long after their father’s coffin disappeared into the ground.

 ------------------

Winchester Orchard was nestled into the nook of the mountain. The lines and rows of apple trees stretched up and up, quirking and winding their way on each little hill and summit. The fog was settled deep between the trees, but if Dean peered closely, he felt he could make out his old house at the very end of the farm; a white dot, empty of life for years. He shuddered. The impulse to go back there was almost overwhelming at times. But he never had.

Dean straightened his jacket. He and Sam had parked at the entrance, and now stood beneath the rusting, arched gateway, where the welcoming signs hung askew and tarnished. _Mary Winchester’s Famous Apple Pies Sold Here, World’s Greatest Apples $10 a Bushel_ , and, a slightly newer sign, _Prices Negotiable_. Dean turned and nodded to Sam, and they started walking across the empty parking lot to the store. There was a distinct feeling of death everywhere about them. The birds weren’t even singing, and the trees beyond the edge of the fence, though weighed down with flowers, seemed barren--it was June, one week after their father had passed, and the Braedens were retiring.

“Howdy boys!” Helen Braeden stood in the doorway, smiling and waving to them. Dean didn’t really know why she was smiling at him. She had never really liked him. Of course, she had reason not to like him. But if Lisa could forgive him, then so could she. She held out a hand to Sam, and nodded to Dean. “Thank you both for coming up. I’m just so sorry about your Pop.”

Helen was wearing a sort of farmer’s hat and was wrapped up in plaid. She had always had a kindness about her face, lined with wrinkles and every smile-line possible. She stood back to let them enter as Sam said, “Thank you.”

Directing them to a table littered with paperwork, she settled down next to them and began taking Sam step by step through the business of the thing. The Braedens had run the orchard for the last 20 years. Unable to keep up with the demands of the land, and undesirous to return to it, John Winchester had put out an ad for land managers and had found the Braedens. They had run the business with some success for years, but Dean had been out of touch for the last eight. It was clear from the signs at the gate that things were falling apart and fast. He felt his temper rising.

“Helen,” he said. She looked up from her conversation with Sam. “Be honest: How much money is left?”

She sighed, pressing her fingers against her temples. “Well, Dean... not a lot.” She glanced to Sam. “That’s what I was about to tell your brother here. He says you want to keep this place, yes?”

Dean felt that that was obvious. “It belongs to my family.” 

“I understand that, Dean, I do. But do you even know what it takes to keep a place like this running?”

“Do _you_?” He shouldn’t have said it. Sam snapped at him, and it was deserved, but Dean couldn’t contain himself. He had had simply no idea what condition his family farm had come to, and now that he was sitting in the dark and dim light of what had been his mother’s favorite place, he was angry. He continued, vile coloring his words, “Did my father know about this?”

Helen crossed her arms. “Dean--”

“I mean, have you guys sold anything in years? What about the harvest? Did you--”

“Dean Winchester, that’s enough.” Helen slammed a hand across the table. “I know what this land means to you. Whether you know it or not, it meant a lot to your father, too. But the logistics of keeping it are simply--”

“So what? I’ll run it better than you.”

Helen laughed loudly, dry and humorless. “Oh, I see.”

Dean shrugged and shoved his hands into the pockets of his leather jacket. “That’s why we’re here, right? To sign the papers and get it back?”

She shook her hand and glanced at Sam. “You’re gonna have fun, explaining all this to him.” After a moment, she sighed, this time resigned. “I asked you boys out here because I was hoping I could convince you to let this place go. We’re in the hole. We had two droughts too many and we need money--or rather, you need money. Otherwise, you’ll be sunk faster than you can blink. And in any case, you’ll be climbing out on hands and knees. Dean,” She leaned forward. “Just be sure about this.”

He blinked at her, then grabbed a pen. He shifted about in the papers, finding the right one and signing it without a word. Helen shook her head and followed suit, standing to leave. “You boys take care. Bob and I are off to Cicero. If you need anything,” and she paused, looking at Dean darkly, before shrugging and heading to the door. “Good luck.”

Sam, always the gentleman, stood and followed her to the door, extending his hand. “Thank you for everything, Mrs. Braeden.”

She smiled, and was halfway out the door, when Dean suddenly stood. “Tell Lisa--” He hesitated, then softened his tone. “Tell Lisa I said hi. And Ben, too.”

She narrowed her eyes for a moment, then nodded slowly, closing the door behind her. Sam and Dean were alone in the dusty silence for a time, listening to the sound of her engine fading down the dirt road, before Sam finally spoke. “Who’s Ben?”

“Hmm?” Dean had been running his hands along the side of the table, sinking into the memories it brought back. “What’s that?”

“I said, who’s Ben?” Sam glanced at him.

“Oh. He’s Lisa’s son.”

“Lisa has a son?”

“Mhmm.” There was a tense silence before Dean finally said, “He’s not mine.”

“Well, I wasn’t gonna ask, but--”

“He’s not. Thought he might have been for awhile, but... no.”

Sam hesitated. “Dean, are you sure about this?”

“Well I didn’t exactly get a paternity test, but I’m pretty sure--”

“No, I mean...” Sam gestured around them and to the window where, past the curtains, row after row of apple tree could be seen standing dark against the fog. “It doesn’t make any sense to keep it, Dean.”

“It makes perfect sense, Sammy.”

“Dean, neither of us live here anymore. I’m at Stanford, and you’re--I don’t even know where you are half the time.”

“I get by.”

“That’s not my point.” Sam stared at him. “Are you really going to move back here and be a business man and... and a _farmer_?“ He fished around for more words to say, but found nothing. He simply leaned against the table and sighed, crossing his arms. “I think this is a huge mistake.”

Dean nodded, and grew silent. After a moment, he pointed, “Do you remember that table?”

Sam looked around. “Huh? No.”

“Mom bought it. She thought it was pretty.” Dean smiled softly to himself, as he remembered sitting on her knee, running his hands along the edge of the table. There were vines carved in the wood, and he remembered thinking that it was indescribably beautiful. He loved the way it felt beneath his fingers, and he loved that his mother loved it. It was a stupid fucking table, but when you don’t have a mother anymore, suddenly you remember all the stupid fucking things that you never thought would matter. “This was Mom’s, Sam. All of it. I can’t just walk away from that.”

There was something deadly behind Sam’s eyes as he said, voice low, “Didn’t stop you before.”

Dean’s head snapped up. “You left first.”

Sam rolled his eyes. “Dean, I went to _college_.”

“And Bennington U was right down the road--”

“--You could have gone too, you know. I don’t know why you never did--”

“--You didn’t even apply there, you just went as far away as humanly poss--”

“--Oh my God, Dean! I am not having this argument with you again!”

Dean’s jaw clicked shut, his breathing heavy. “Yeah, right. What’s the point.”

They fell silent again. Dean gripped the back of a chair in front of him, his eyes staring out the window, watching as the sun came out from behind the clouds and began to burn away the fog. Sam shook him from his reverie. “You gonna live in the house?”

Dean shook his head, his voice clipped. “No.”

“It comes with the land, Dean."

“I’m not living there.”

“...So where will you--”

“I dunno. Get an apartment or something.”

“How will you afford--”

“I’ll get a job at a shop. Or here. I’ll think of something.” Silence fell again, and Dean finally looked back at his brother. “You’re really not going to stay.”

“Dean, I’ve got the summer semester starting--I’m almost done with law school--I can’t.”

“I understand.”

“Dean, really I--”

“No, it’s ok. I get it.” He sighed. “I’m glad you’re happy.”

Sam opened his palms, giving a gentle smile. “You could always come back with me.”

“Signed the papers, it’s done. I’m staying here.” He paused. “This is all we’ve got left, Sammy. I’m not letting it go.”

Sam nodded slowly, and he sat back down at the table. “Well then, come sit. I can help you go over this stuff until I head back.”

Dean smiled. “You always were a good banker.”

“That’s just because I played Monopoly _honestly_ , Dean. Something you never seemed able to do.”

“Well, when there’s easy money...” They laughed, and then stopped, because it was the first time they had laughed since their father had died. It felt wrong.

One week later, Sam was gone, and Dean was alone in the barn-shaped shop, dusting off the tables, changing the light bulbs, fixing the plumbing, mopping the floors, plugging mouse-holes, and hunting through the recipes for his mother’s handwriting. And then he would remember the orchard, and he would go out and walk through he trees, spraying insecticide and checking the irrigation tubing where he could, but finding himself unable to journey close to the house. Then he would remember the signs at the entrance, and the pot-holed roadway, and then he remembered the aide he would have to call in to manage the apple-growth, and then suddenly, he was out of money. No job at a mechanics shop was going to cover the cleaning up of the farm.

Three weeks after Sam left, Dean put an ad in the paper. And that was how he met Castiel.


	2. Thursday

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> An offer is made in the shadow of the past.

_Investment opportunity—Winchester Orchard. One hundred acres, storefront, and three bedroom house on site. World Famous apples and pies.  To discuss sale, contact Dean Winchester, 802-555-1102._

To be honest, he hadn’t expected to receive so many calls. In writing the ad, he had made up that ‘world famous’ bit. His mother’s pies were absolutely the best in the world, but he highly doubted anyone outside of Bennington or the surrounding area was aware of them. But still—it had seemed right at the time, and since he’d only published it in the  _Bennington Times_ , he didn’t think anyone would object. And maybe it was why people were calling.

Many of the conversations had been brief at best. Some were just curious as to why he was selling in the first place, which was frankly none of their business. But he had fielded so many of those questions that, eventually, he came up with a succinct answer that he could roll off his tongue without any feeling. Some called to make him offers that were so insulting in figures that Dean laughed them off. He knew what his land was worth, and he was going to get it.

So far, he had had two men and one woman each come up and tour the land, sit with Dean in the store, and discuss offers. Only one had been completely unappealing. The man had greasy hair and a smile to match, and revealed after awhile that he had no intention of actually farming the land. He seemed more interested in selling the macabre history of the house, making a haunted B & B pit stop. Dean had promptly run him off the land.

The woman had been hoping to create and expand a shopping center there, which seemed absurd to Dean, and he wasn’t truthfully entertaining the idea, but she had been kind and seemed honest, and perhaps her idea wasn’t entirely off the map. She suggested that perhaps such a well-run farm was losing business simply because people were no longer interested in the agricultural world. The idea stung Dean deeper than he could say. And it was sticking in his brain.

The other man to visit was the only one who seemed interested in actually running the land. That was, Dean discovered, what he truly wanted to hear and up until now, this man’s offer seemed the best, though low. And Dean did not necessarily have a lot of faith in the gentleman. He seemed nice enough, but flat and almost lackadaisical. As in,  _I suppose I’ll buy this piece of land and farm it, I guess_.

Today was Thursday, and Dean had one last meeting lined up. This man, when Dean had spoken to him on the phone, had been so hard to understand that it had been nigh impossible to schedule the meeting, let alone explain to him how to get to the orchard. He sounded like he’d been very sick, or like his throat had been run over gravel. In either case, Dean was waiting alone in the store, tapping his fingers on the wooden table, and checking the clock. At exactly 11:00 AM, and not one second sooner or later, the door opened. Dean stood up. “Castiel?”

“Yes. Dean Winchester?”

Dean held forth his hand, which the man accepted. “Glad you could make it out. Bit wet today.”

Castiel shook off his raincoat and draped it on the coat stand by the door. “It usually is, when I have somewhere to be.”

And then he stood there, sort of half-smiling. Dean waited for a moment, then suddenly clued in and stepped back to his table, gesturing at the open chair across from him. “Please, sit.”

“Thank you.”

Dean seated himself, watching as the man settled down across from him. The man’s voice was a little softer in present, but it was still gruff and blunt. Dean felt like he was staring face to face with the dictionary definition of a business man; he wore a pristine black suit and a blue tie, and everything looked as though it had been ironed repeatedly into perfection. There was such a stiffness about the way he sat and moved that Dean found himself biting the edges of his lips to keep himself from laughing. “So,” Dean said, after a moment.

“So.”

“You’re interested in the property?”

“Yes, I am.”

Dean thought that he’d given a perfect opportunity for the man to elaborate, but he remained silent. Dean prodded further, fighting the inclination growing in his mind that this was going to be yet another bad meeting. “You wanna… talk about it some?”

“I’d like to, yes. First of all: why are you selling?”

Dean slipped into automatic. “Times got tough. My dad just died, and it’s not really working out.”

Castiel nodded, his blue eyes looking around and about, investigating the room. “As I understand it, this place and your family are rather famous in this area?”

Dean’s eyes lidded over dangerously. He chewed his lips and contained his temper. “You could say that.”

The man stopped his motions and snapped his eyes back to Dean. “Do not misunderstand me, please. I’m not interested in your family’s history, rather the history of this farm. It is famous in this area, yes?”

Dean relaxed slightly, giving a wry smile. “World famous pies.”

“Famous in this area, you mean.” Castiel smiled indulgently, and Dean found himself suddenly very irritated.

“I assume you’d like a tour of the place?”

“If you can, yes, I would like that.”

Dean nodded and stood. “Grab your jacket.”

There was an obnoxious sort of rain-drizzle that permeated the air, making a chill creep down Dean’s collar. It was the summer time, he wasn’t supposed to be shivering as he slid into the driver’s side and turned on the roaring engine of the Impala. He flicked on the windshield wipers which were only just necessary as Castiel slid into the seat next to him.

Dean turned them onto the graveled pathway winding its way up the hillside, passing the black fence-posts on either side of the road, marking the start of the grove. “So,” he spoke into the silence. “We’ve got 100 acres, and about 60 trees per acre. Not the dwarf variety, which in all honesty would be easier to pick, but these trees are about 100 years old. They’ve been producing for our family for a long time.”

“And you grew up here?” Castiel asked, his eyes sliding over to Dean.

“I… yes. For part of my life, yes.”

It occurred to Dean as silence returned to the cab that Castiel might not exactly understand what he was getting himself into. “What’s your last name again?”

“Allen.”

“…Like Daphne Allen, in Paper Mill?”

“No.” Castiel peered out the window, his hands almost pressed to the glass. “This is an impressive amount of trees.”

Dean blinked, working them around a steeper bend in the road before looking across the seat to the man. “You ever farmed before?”

Castiel returned Dean’s gaze, and said very seriously. “No.”

Dean sighed and threw his foot down on the brakes, shaking his head and wrapping his fingers deeper around the leather of the steering wheel. He laughed without any humor as he stared down, muttering. “Unbelievable…”

“Excuse me?”

Dean threw the gear into Park. “What do you wanna do with the place.”

“I don’t understand what you mean.”

Dean looked at him squarely. “You’re not a farmer, and you’re not from around here. What the hell do you want with a hundred-acre farm.”

“I—”

“You just yanking my chain here, or what?”

“No.”

“Tell me what you want to do with  _my land_.” There was such a fierceness in Dean’s voice that he could almost see the man recoil.

“I…” Castiel stammered after a moment. “I see you don’t particularly want to sell.”

“Well, that doesn’t really matter, because you see, I  _have_  to sell. So make me your offer so I can turn it down and go with someone who actually  _will_  care for my family’s land.”

Castiel blinked at him, and in an instant Dean regretted his words. He regretted this whole thing, actually, and he knew he was taking it out on the wrong person. He took a deep, shuddering breath, about to apologize, when Castiel spoke, softly.

“My name is Castiel Malach Allen, I’m from Burbank California. I have a Bachelor’s Degree in Accounting and a Masters in Business from Berkley. I came out here because I…” he paused. “I needed to find something else.” He looked at Dean, seriously. “I don’t know much about farming, but I have always loved the land. I have always wanted to live in the North East. And I… I think I could do a good job keeping the business going here. That is, after all, where I  _do_  have experience. And I will pay what you ask—I have the means, and I have the will.”

Dean stared at him—they locked eyes for a few, intense moments, and then Dean slowly put the car back into drive, and continued up the dirt roadway. He was covered in something close to shame, his words bouncing around and echoing in his mind. He had reacted like a fool, an asshole, and yet this man hadn’t bolted or backed down. Castiel had instead, calmly and cooly, explained everything Dean had needed to know. And that dignified response alone made Dean feel worse.

For ten minutes they rode in complete silence, and then he turned to the car to the left, slowly coming to a halt in front of the two-story house beside them. It was ridiculous how he felt like the house was watching him. Three other times he had been in this exact spot, and each time Dean felt he was shuddering away a ghost.

“This is the property…” Dean said roughly, leaning over to the glove compartment, excusing himself for brushing against Castiel’s knees, and removing the key-ring he found there. “Go ahead and take a look at it.”

Castiel accepted the keys. “You’re not coming in?”

Dean shook his head. “I’ll wait out here.”

He stepped out of the car, watching as Castiel climbed up the steps to the porch and undid the locks, walking inside and shutting the door behind him. Dean strolled around to the passenger’s side and leaned against the Impala, trying very hard to feel something other than upset or anxious. But it was hard with the house staring down at him, with the drizzle climbing up his exposed skin, and the realization that this man was probably going to make him an offer he couldn’t refuse. He felt an enormous hole in his chest, growing deeper and deeper, and he shoved his hands into the pockets of his father’s jacket, the one he had seen him wear as he strolled down from the house and into the orchard, the one he had seen him wear as he kissed his wife goodbye in the mornings. It had hung in his father’s closet, tucked at the very back, and when he and Sam had pulled it out to look at it, Dean couldn’t help but slip it on. The leather was supple and giving and warm—the jacket itself was every bit of love his father had been unable to give to him for the past twenty-odd years. It was physically painful to wear it, but Dean hadn’t been able to take it off. He had worn it all day as he and Sam went through box after box, taking apart his father’s life and finding pieces of their own scattered throughout.

Twenty minutes later, Dean heard the screen door screech to a close, and he looked up to see Castiel watching him from the porch steps. He straightened. “What do you think?”

Castiel bobbed his head gently. “It needs some work… but it’s in very good condition. I assume it’s as old as the land?”

Dean nodded. “My mom and dad put a lot of work into it when they moved in. But that was about thirty years ago.”

Castiel said nothing. He walked down the remainder of the distance and came to stand next to Dean, eventually leaning against the Impala as well, looking up at the house. After a moment, he spoke. “I have an offer to make you, Dean Winchester.”

“Thought you might.”

“No, you misunderstand. I would…” he paused, and turned to make eye-contact with Dean. “This land is yours. It’s your family’s. And you know more about it than I ever could in a month.”

“What’s your point.”

“Stay on and help me run it.”

Dean’s jaw dropped slowly. “What?”

Castiel smiled at him. “This is my offer. Stay on, work in the store, and help me figure out who to hire and where to go for supplies, how to…” He paused, and laughed softly. “How exactly to live in a small town…”

“I lived here most of my life, Castiel, and I don’t even know how to live here.”

Castiel’s smile grew wider. “Still… what do you say?”

Dean stared at him. He stared at the house. He stared at the ground beneath his feet and back up to Castiel. “… _Why_?”

Castiel shrugged. “Because… I don’t know why. Because you seem to care about this place? Because if I change the name to  _Allen Orchard_  no one in the Tri-State area will come?” Dean laughed and Castiel continued. “Because… Because I can, I suppose.”

Dean stared at him. “You should probably know that the house is haunted.”

“Oh?”

“Yeah. Everyone says that, at least.”

“Well that’s alright. I don’t believe in ghosts.”

Dean swallowed roughly. “We’ll have to get some kind of contract written up…”

“Of course.”

“My brother—my lawyer could probably help us out there.”

“Ok.”

Castiel was watching him, and Dean felt his heart trembling. There had to be some mistake. This wasn’t going to pan out, and the man in front of him would prove as false and as disappointing as everyone else in his life had. But still—there was something about the wideness of his eyes, and the blatant  _goodness_  in his expression, that gave Dean something he hadn’t felt in a long time:  _hope_.

“Alright, Mr. Allen.” He held out his hand, feeling Castiel slide his fingers against his own. “You’ve got yourself a deal.”


	3. Changes

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Friendships are kindled from the old and from the new.

It wasn’t like Dean was expecting the transition to go smoothly—but he had expected it to go smoother than this. Sam had done an exemplary job in putting together the contract. He had contacted a reputable law firm in the Bennington area,  _Harvelle and Sons_ , and Dean had met Castiel there three days after their initial hand-shake agreement. Each understood the terms perfectly, signed their names in black ink, and shook hands over it.

And then Castiel started making his “improvements” to the farm.

First he had come up with a fresh paint scheme for the outside of the store, which seemed fine after small consideration. The old brown paint was fading miserably, and red, though a little too bright for Dean’s taste, was a pretty classic color, especially since the store was designed to look like a barn anyway. And Castiel pointed out that red was fairly synonymous with the idea of apples. After it was finished, it did look nice, and Dean congratulated himself on selecting and discovering such competent local contractors. But Castiel had been displeased when he got the bill.

“1,500 dollars? Dean, are you kidding me? Did they price you this?”

“Well, no,” Dean shifted his feet, suddenly viciously hot around the collar. “But the paint got discontinued and it cost extra to—”

Castiel held up a hand and didn’t say anything more. Of course, that meant he didn’t  _hear_ anything more either, and Dean left that day feeling useless and irritated.

Then Castiel started to revamp the inside of the store—the curtains, the flooring. He closed off the interior window between the register to the kitchen, elongated the bar around the side, and took down a lot of the hunting paraphernalia that had hung on the walls for years. “We sell pies, Dean, not duck.” As if that had explained everything. Even when Dean told him that that duck had been shot by Samuel Campbell, his grandfather, or that that particular moose head was so old it had once hung in city hall.

And then Castiel talked about removing the dessert refrigerator from next to the cash-register. And when Dean, very calmly in his opinion, explained why that was a bad idea, Castiel clarified: it wouldn’t look classy in a restaurant. Dean let that sink in for a full moment as he leaned against the window-pane, dusty from the various construction projects, before he responded.

“A restaurant?”

“Yes.”

“Like, a full-time, mashed potatoes, yams and green beans restaurant.”

“Yes.”

Dean laughed bitterly. “No offense, Castiel, but that’s a really shitty idea. You can’t do that.”

“Dean, a dessert store alone is not bringing in enough profit. When sales are seasonal like that—”

“Yeah, apples fall one time a year—it’s called a  _harvest_ , Castiel. And it tends to be a pretty big deal around here.”

“Dean, it’s illogical to assume that we’ll make the amount we need in just the span of a few months.”

“And how much money is it going to cost to  _make_  this into a full time restaurant?”

“Dean,” Castiel sighed. “Let me worry about the money part of this.”

Dean’s jaw hardened, and he shook his head. “Right. Ok, sure. Won’t worry my head with business that it doesn’t know anything about—and when this idea falls through—”

“—Dean—”

“ _And when this idea falls through_ ,” He repeated, gruffly, “I’ll promise not to say I told you so.”

Castiel threw his arms into the air with an exasperated cry, and then they were silent for a long time. Dean folded his arms, watching Castiel begin to pace around the room, working his hands, his eyes loaded with phrases and words, clearly trying to figure out how to say what he needed to say. Eventually, he stopped and sighed, turning to Dean. “Dean, I’m sorry, you’ll just have to trust me on this.”

Dean shook his head. “And you’ll just have to trust me on  _this_ : my parents thought of making this place a restaurant a long time ago. They tried it, and almost went into debt.”

“It will work this time.”

“And why is that?”

“Advertisement.”

Dean laughed bitterly. “Ok, well, here’s a funny thing about small towns.” He slapped his hands together, pointing them at Castiel. “They don’t like change.”

“I can see that.”

They stared at each other, a violent sort of energy crackling between them. After a moment, Dean dropped his gaze, clenching his jaw, and Castiel backed away, turning to stare out the opposite window at the bright, sunny light of the afternoon. He hesitated, then asked softly, “How many of your mother’s recipes do you have still?”

Dean looked up. “Box in the back. Was going through them before I…” He trailed off and Castiel continued.

“Just desserts, or..?”

“No. Lots of stuff. Home-cooking.”

Castiel braced himself against the back of a chair. He looked squarely across at Dean, his eyes imploring. “Dean, we can use your family’s recipes: it is  _your_  land we’re selling here, after all.”

Dean leaned back, slowly. “…You mean, my  _family_. You’re selling my family.”

Castiel’s head tilted to the side, considering. “Well, yes, in a sense.”

Dean did not know what to say. He was beyond furious, and while there was an apologetic look on Castiel’s face, it wasn’t enough to make Dean feel any better. His fingers worked themselves deep into the flesh of his arms, his nostrils flaring as he fought to control his voice. “Fine.” He said slowly. “Fine. You want a restaurant, you got a restaurant.” He looked up, eyes on fire. “But I hire the chef.”

“Normally one would try-out for that sort of—”

Dean did not hear the rest. He launched out of the store, throwing his coat on and slamming the door behind him. The ground was still a touch wet from the last rainstorm, and there was a voice pleading with him in the back of his mind not to peel out on the wet, gravel road, because he would have to repair the damage later; but Dean didn’t care. He didn’t give one God-damn as he almost lost control of the wheel, ripping it left around the corner and onto the asphalt road leading into town.

Castiel had never before given any indication that he was interested in profiting from the Winchester history. Granted, he had never said or asked Dean anything about the murder, but Castiel had to know about it by now. He’d lived in the house for three weeks, and every contractor he had brought in to fix it up was a local. Dean could only imagine the stories they would tell Castiel about the blood in the entry-way, the violence of it all, the suddenly motherless baby sleeping upstairs…

Dean didn’t know where he was going, until he found himself driving down an old, familiar route. Dean’s unconscious had realized that, if he was going to bring in a chef who could do his mother’s cooking any kind of service, there was only one place to go.

——————————————

The piles of detritus in the yard, old car-parts, tires, and scrap-metal, had only grown in the years since Dean had stood in front of this house. The paint was peeling off the siding, and the porch stoop sagged so low it looked positively dangerous. But the golden letters appliqued to the mailbox, albeit faded, still read  _Singer_ , and there was a fresh newspaper on the front step. So when Dean rapped his knuckles against the wooden door, he felt certain at what he would find. But the door suddenly gave under the pressure and swung inward on its hinges; Dean found himself staring down a vast expanse of black hallway, his heart inexplicably pounding.

“Bobby?”

He waited, but no reply came. He tried again, “Bobby, you there?”

Slowly, hesitantly, he stepped inside, feeling like his boots were astonishingly loud against the wooden floors, leaving a trail in the dust as he worked his way in. He passed the living room entryway, when loud snore startled him up against the wall. Turning his head, he saw Bobby Singer passed out on the couch, a beer bottle snuggled between his arms and several more on the floor.

Peeling himself from the wallpaper with a deep, calming breath, Dean’s mouth stretched itself into a hard line. “Bobby,” he said loudly.

Nothing.

Rolling his eyes, Dean picked his way across the newspapers and old pizza boxes, grimacing as he kicked aside a few empty cans. He leaned down over the snoring man. “ _Bobby_.”

Still nothing.

Dean clapped his hands together loudly. “ _Bobby!_ ”

And  _that_  did it.

With a few absurd snorts and a bit of flailing, Bobby sat upright wildly, and then groaned, his words slurring as he peeled his eyes open and then squinted, staring at the new man standing in front of him with apparent confusion.

Dean snarled as he caught a whiff of the man’s breath. “Christ, you’re still drunk.”

“…Dean?  _Winchester_?”

Nodding absently, Dean leaned down and grabbed Bobby beneath the arms, heaving him up and forward. “Jesus,” he said. “What the hell happened to you?”

Bobby craned his head to the side as, with Dean’s arm under his shoulders, they made their way out into the hallway. “Dean Winchester…” he said again, then laughed himself into a nasty cough. “Didn’t think I’d see you again.”

“Yeah, yeah, we’ll have time for reuniting later—right now we need to sober you up.” He kicked open the door to the bathroom, wrenched on the faucet, and flung Bobby beneath the cold water.

——————————————-

A short time later, Dean and Bobby sat together at the old kitchen table, wiped clean by Dean as Bobby sipped on a water, his hands shaking as they helped to support his head. “Got a splittin’ headache.”

“Well that’s your own damn fault.” Dean sat back and folded his arms tightly. “You gonna tell me what’s goin’ on?”

“Huh.” Bobby laughed in a dark whisper, as he continued to adjust to sitting upright. He struggled for a moment, then looked across the table and examined Dean from under the shadow of his baseball cap. “You gonna tell me why you left without saying goodbye?”

Dean frowned, working his jaw. “I didn’t really have a choice.”

“Whatever your daddy said…” But Dean shot him a warning look and he quieted. Eventually, he returned with a gentle: “You always knew you had a place here.”

“Bobby…” Dean shook his head. “It wasn’t about you. I had to get away here, from _everything_  here…” He looked up, catching the glance in Bobby’s eyes and adding quickly. “Not you, though. Of course not you.”

“Oh, of course not.”

Dean chewed on his lips, feeling his throat open painfully. “So…” He made his voice work around the lump. “You’re a drunk now, huh?”

Bobby rolled his eyes, finding the strength to pop back the rest of his water and shuddering his displeasure. “Was always a drunk, Dean.”

Dean looked up sharply. “Don’t ever remember you  _passed out_  drunk. And what the fuck,” he gestured around him, “Is with this  _house_?” Bobby’s face fell slightly, and Dean found it impossible to say the next part. But that didn’t matter—Bobby read his mind anyway.

“Dean, this is not your fault. I had been this way a long time.”

Dean looked at him. “But you sobered up for me, huh?”

“Dean…”

“So when I left, it all went to shit again. Is that it?”

“Dammit Dean, stop it!” Bobby slammed his hand against the table, then seemed to instantly regret it, wincing and pulling it back to his head with a groan. He took a deep breath. “I’m too hung over for this shit. Don’t play that game with me.”

Staring down at the floor, Dean traced the outlines of an empty Doritos bag with his eyes as he heard the unspoken addition to that thought:  _Don’t play that game with me. I am not your father._  And Bobby wasn’t. But fuck if it wasn’t every day growing up Dean had wished Bobby were his father. Dean spoke to the floor, his voice emotionless. “…Why didn’t you come to the funeral.”

Bobby looked up at him, and Dean met his gaze, seeing regret flit across his face. He suddenly became very interested in his hands, so Dean supplied the answer for him. “Couldn’t bear it?”

Bobby shook his head.

“Fair enough. You were his partner for ten years, which means you two were closer than he and I ever were.”

“Dean, I’m sorry.” He stared across the table earnestly. “I am so, so sorry.”

“Yeah, well, I’m sorry, too.” He shifted in his seat. “Anyway. I got a job for you.”

“Oh?”

“Yeah.” Dean nodded. “Think you can dry up for it?”

“Don’t know,” said Bobby honestly. “But I can try. What is it?”

Dean stood. He trailed his fingers over the table, then tapped them a few times. “We’re goin’ to the orchard, Bobby. And you’re making chowder.”

————————————-

Under normal circumstances, Dean would have laughed hearing the sounds of Bobby cursing and swearing in the kitchen, as metal pots and pans clanged into each other with vicious authority. But this wasn’t a normal circumstance, and when smoke started to appear from behind the kitchen door, Dean felt more than a little panicked.

He glanced to his left. Castiel was seated next to him at the bar, and wore such an unimpressed look on his face that Dean felt obligated to speak. “He’s really a great cook, you know. Made supper for me and Sam most nights.”

Bobby picked that moment to shout out a particularly nasty slur. Castiel’s eyebrows raised, though when he spoke he sounded sincere. “Must have been a fascinating youth.”

“I’ll just…” Dean smiled and slid off his stool. “Go see what’s up.”

He slipped through the swinging metal door and instantly his smile dropped. “Bobby—” he grit out, “What the hell—”

The back door was wide open, and Bobby, with oven-mitts in hand, was wildly attempting to direct the smoke outside. Dean ran to him to help. “What the hell is going on?”

“Oil—” Bobby coughed. “On the stove—”

Dean stared at him. “Bobby, I barely fucking cook and even  _I_  know not to leave oil on the stove—”

“It was an accident, Dean!”

Dean looked across at the older man, who had taken off his baseball cap and was using it to aide in moving fresh air to the kitchen. His hairline had receded and thinned since last Dean had seen him, and he couldn’t help but notice in the evening light that Bobby looked tired. Dean hesitated. “Is this too much for you, Bobby?”

“What?” Bobby’s eyes snapped up at him, and he stilled his motions. “Hell no! Of course not.”

“Because you don’t have to—”

“Shut your ass up and get back in there and schmooze.” He pointed at the doorway. “I’ve _got_  this.”

Dean’s mouth worked into a frustrated smile as he rolled his eyes. “No point in schmoozing, Bobby, the guy already owns the place.”

“Well then talk me up. Because I’m pretty sure the name on this farm is still Winchester, and I’m pretty sure you’re still involved. You want your momma’s cookin’? Then you better get it.”

So Dean, fake smile plastered to his face, sauntered through the door and walked back to Castiel. “Everything’s fine, he just—”

Castiel’s nose was buried behind a tattered paper, and it took Dean a moment to realize what it was. The second he did, he ran behind the counter, leaned over the bar and frantically snatched it from Castiel’s grasp. “What the fuck are you doing?”

He snapped the lid back down on the small metal box and Castiel’s brows flew downward. “Excuse me?”

“Those are my mother’s recipes.”

“Oh, really?” The sarcasm on Castiel’s voice was evident. “I couldn’t tell.”

“Do you fucking think I’m joking here? That’s private stuff!”

“Actually, it belongs to the store, Dean. And I believe that this store belongs to me.”

Dean’s jaw clicked. “Those recipes are  _secret_ , Castiel. And my name’s on the contract, too.”

“Technically, you don’t  _own_  this, Dean, you just—”

“I don’t give a shit what my fancy-ass title is—caretaker, advisor, counselor, who gives a fuck?” He slammed the small box against the wooden bar. “ _These are my mother’s_. You do _not_  touch them without my permission.”

Castiel’s nostrils flared, and for the second time that day, they found themselves staring at each other, each daring the other to say what they were both thinking. And finally, Castiel did.

“Maybe this isn’t working out, Dean.”

“Yeah, maybe it isn’t.”

Castiel sat back in his stool. “Maybe you should go.”

And Dean was about to retort that, well, maybe Castiel could go and climb back up that stick he had shoved so high up his ass, when Dean remembered, with a sudden punch to the gut, that he no longer owned this land. Contractual aide or no, the farm lay under the Allen name now. The money had gone through. They were a month into business.

And Castiel was completely within his rights to kick Dean off the land.

Dean’s eyes narrowed, and he opened his mouth again, because fuck if it didn’t feel like this was Castiel’s plan all along. Like this was always in the cards. Make nice, make it seem like an opportunity, then fuck all and do it your own way.

Licking his lips, Dean finally leaned away from the bar, his hands clasped to the metal recipe box as he turned to leave. Castiel shook his head just once as he spoke, in a voice very quiet, “You leave those.”

Coldness gripped him, and with almost unmoving fingers, Dean pried himself from his mother’s tin, and within three seconds, he was out the door.

———————————-

At a quarter to midnight, the last thing Dean was expecting to hear was a knock on his door.

At first he thought about ignoring it. But it came again, quiet but insistent, and Dean warily got to his feet. He checked the baseball bat behind the door and, gripping it tightly in his hand, turned the knob to open the door an inch.

“Yes?”

“Dean, it’s me.” If the vague outline of the trench-coat hadn’t been enough of a give-away, then the voice certainly was. Dean’s hand didn’t budge, though.

“What do you want?”

“To talk, if I may? Please?” The please was an added afterthought, but in that small second Castiel’s face had worked its way into the light, and he connected with Dean through the small inch or two of space. Dean sighed heavily, and after a moment, undid the chain on the top of the door. Releasing the bat, he swung the door open and walked inside, assuming Castiel would follow.

“How the hell did you find where I live?”

“It’s in the contract. You um…” Castiel paused, and Dean turned around to watch as the man closed the door behind him, looking around with dubious eyes. “You have a lovely apartment,” he finally settled on. It was a lie, obviously, but a nice lie, so Dean accepted it with the heart it came from.

“Want a beer?”

“No, thank you, I don’t drink.”

Dean turned so Castiel couldn’t see him roll his eyes. Figures. “Don’t mind if I do, right?”

“Not at all, no.”

Dean wandered into his kitchen, glad that Castiel couldn’t see inside the fridge as he opened it. He barely had anything left to eat, and he was pretty sure his milk had expired. But there was, however, plenty of beer, and Dean had a feeling he would need it.

He turned around, extending a hand to the couch, civility and politeness overwhelming the bitter feelings he had in his throat. He swallowed them down with wheat and barley, watching as Castiel, like a fluffed up parakeet, settled himself on the threadbare cloth. He opened his mouth to speak, but the neighbors next door suddenly interrupted. They could be heard shouting at each other. Castiel’s eyes widened, and together he and Dean listened as the bickering grew louder and louder, into a full fledged argument. They couldn’t hear the words that were said, but the timbre and volume of the voices spoke enough. Castiel’s mouth flopped for a second, and then, as though he couldn’t resist it, said, “That happen often?”

Dean bobbed his head from side to side, smirking. “It may have escaped your notice, Mr. Allen, but I don’t exactly live in the finest establishment in Bennington, Vermont.”

“I just, um… never mind.” Castiel blinked, then raised his voice over a particularly violent outburst from next door. “I came here to apologize to you.”

“Oh?” Dean’s eyebrows raised with his genuine surprise. “Is that so?”

“Yes, it is, I—” He jumped as what sounded like glass hit the wall. “Are you sure we don’t need to go over there and check on them?”

Dean shook his head. “No, no. Wait for it.”

They listened, and quite suddenly, the noises took on a very different turn. Castiel’s eyebrows raised and Dean smiled. “Atta boy, Clarence!” he shouted. “You tap that ass!”

Castiel stared up at him, and Dean shrugged. “They’ve been fighting for weeks.”

“That hardly sounds healthy, Dean.”

Dean shrugged again and sat down in the fold-out, cloth chair at his side. “No, it’s not, really. But then again, they are nineteen and stupid.”

Dean looked across at Castiel, finding himself pondering if this man had even the slightest inclination of what it must be like to be nineteen and stupid. There was a sudden burst of pity in his heart as he watched Castiel try very hard not to hear the sounds of blatant love-making through the wall. Slowly, Dean smiled. “So ok. You were going to apologize.”

Castiel practically gasped, leaping onto the offered conversation with obvious relief. “Yes! Yes, I—I was. And I am. Dean, I’m very sorry.”

“What for?” Dean leaned back in his seat, bringing the beer to his lips and listening to the man intently.

“Well, first for… for this.” Castiel produced from his pocket the small, square tin that he and Dean had fought over this evening. He placed it tenderly on the coffee table, sliding it over to Dean, who watched its progress with his eyes, but did not move to accept it. He simply looked back at Castiel, who spoke hurriedly. “I was wrong for looking, I was wrong for claiming it was mine—I was wrong. This is yours.”

Dean swallowed, his expression unchanging. “And the second?”

“Huh? Oh, the uh—the second…” Castiel glanced back over his shoulder, as the couple in the adjoining room got suddenly much louder. Dean held up his fingers, nodding at Castiel.

“Hang on, they’re almost done.”

And three wall-rattling cries later, they clearly were. Castiel’s eyebrows rose into his hairline, and after a moment, he spoke. “That didn’t take very long.”

“Well, like I said, nineteen and stupid.” Dean took another swig of his beer. “Go on.”

“Yes. Well…” Castiel shifted, suddenly moving forward to perch on the couch’s edge, steepling his hands together and, after a long moment, looking up at Dean. “I needed to apologize because… I had no idea.”

“No idea about what?” Dean stared at him, but Castiel didn’t say anything. He just looked across the coffee table at Dean, eyes wide, until Dean shook his head. “Not possible.”

“Dean…”

“All those contractors, in your house—”

“I didn’t talk with them. We shared business, Dean, that was all!”

“And I’m supposed to believe that no one else in this town, that you’ve lived in for a whole month almost, told you about it? Or asked you what it was like to live in the haunted Winchester Mansion? Asked you if working with me was  _just awful_?”

“No, Dean, they didn’t.”

“I don’t believe it.”

Castiel finally rolled his eyes and sat back. “Well fine, they may have said something or another, but I wasn’t listening to them! It was always a one-sided discourse at best. I don’t know if you’ve understood this yet, Dean—” Castiel stared at him impressively, “But I don’t really get along with people too well.”

He sighed at the floor, and Dean sat up a little straighter as Castiel continued. “I only found out because Mr. Singer told me.”

“Bobby?”

“Yes.”

Dean leaned his head back, processing that thought for a moment. “You can call him Bobby, you know.” Castiel glared at him, but Dean nodded. “I’m pretty sure he’d be really upset to hear someone call him Mr. Singer.”

“You called me Mr. Allen,” Castiel said, irritably.

Dean smiled slightly. “That’s because I was angry at you.”

And then there was such a sudden, hopeful expression in Castiel’s eyes that Dean felt any iciness still gripping him ebb away. He looked at Castiel seriously. “So you didn’t know.”

“No, I didn’t.”

“And when I told you the house was haunted, you thought, what, exactly?”

Castiel shrugged. “It’s an old house, Dean. I don’t know, I… I thought it was an old house.” He paused, then added with great feeling. “Dean, I would never have said what I said about your family… I would never have even alluded to the idea that…” He shook his head. “Please understand I did not wish to upset you.”

And Dean believed him. He really, truly did. Maybe he was being an idiot and falling for the trick of this man’s expression again, or maybe, just maybe, Castiel was a genuine person. An awkward, uncomfortable, and sometimes unbearable person, but genuine nonetheless. Slowly, Dean nodded his head, and an almost audible relief escaped from Castiel, his mouth widening into a smile. “Good. Thank you, Dean.”

“Yeah, yeah…”

Castiel stood to go, still grinning as he turned on the spot. “Oh by the way, very good idea: Mr Sing— _Bobby_. He made the best chowder I’ve ever tasted.”

Dean swallowed, and he walked Castiel to the door. “Thanks. It was my mom’s.”

Castiel crooked his head to the side, listening as Dean heard himself open up, ever so slightly. “My Dad worked with Bobby—he…. he bought over some of the recipes and Bobby would make them for all of us some nights…”

“Dean…” Castiel said quietly. “I know I’m not much in the way of a friend, but if you ever need someone to talk to…”

Dean nodded, his voice suddenly rough. “Yeah. Sure. Thanks, Cas…”

_Cas_ : it was so much nicer sounding on his tongue than  _Castiel_ , and Dean found himself wondering why he hadn’t shortened the name ages ago. Castiel smiled, halfway out the door. “Alright then, I will… I will see you tomorrow, at the store, yes? Would like to run over the new layout’s blue-print with you, if that’s alright?”

Dean grimaced, but agreed all the same, and they parted that night on good terms. Not just good terms:  _friendly_  terms. And though they did fight the next morning over the positioning of the tables and the number of wait-staff required, they did so as allies.

Which was important, because later on that day, Dean would receive a rather unexpected call from Sam.


	4. Homecoming

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Everything was different.

The phone rang at around 3:30 PM. Dean was midway through the burger that he had bought for lunch, tossing another one at Castiel, grinning as Castiel seemed completely miserable while eating it.

“What, you vegetarian too?”

“No…” Castiel grimaced. “I just like to avoid fast-food.”

“Well you can avoid it all you want later. For now, be grateful and shut up.”

Dean shoved cheese and bacon in his mouth, savoring it with an added obnoxious joy that he aimed at Castiel, watching his face contort and trying not to choke with laughter. They were sitting at a table in the middle of the store, blue-prints scattered in front of them. Dean had pulled in a fifteen foot ladder to reach the high walls and ceiling, and he had been halfway through changing lightbulbs when hunger gripped him. Burger King was just down the road, and it was fucking heaven.

The phone rang again. Dean’s eyes alighted to it on the nearby counter, and Castiel stood to get it for him. He glanced at the screen, curiously. “Sam?”

“Gimme.” Dean itched his fingers, catching the phone as it was tossed. He flipped it open, swallowing down his most recent bite. “Sammy?”

“Hey, Dean!…Are you eating?”

“Double stacker, baby.” Dean licked his fingers. He could practically see Sam’s face convulse in repulsion. “What’s up?”

“Well, um, if you’re not busy…”

Dean looked up at Castiel and inclined his head, gesturing towards the door. Castiel nodded, and Dean stepped outside. “No, Sam, I’m not busy. What’s going on?”

“It’s um…” Sam hesitated. “It’s about Mom.”

Dean blinked under the sun, his eye brows raising with his surprise. “About Mom?”

“Yeah.”

Again, Sam hesitated, so Dean prompted him. “What about her?”

“Dean, I found out something about her murder, and I think it’s important.” Sam said this all very fast, and when he was done, Dean could hear Sam breathing through the phone; he waited. “…Dean?”

“Yeah, I’m here.”

“Did you hear what I—”

“What did you find out?”

Sam sighed heavily. “It could be nothing—”

“Sam.”

“I mean, I don’t know if—”

“ _Sam_.”

“…I’ve been doing research lately. You know, sort of part of my schooling and sort of… not. But…” Dean leaned his back against the wall as he listened, his heart pounding, every memory as fresh now as it was then. “Around thirty years ago, there was a murder in New Mexico. Thirty-five years ago there was a murder in Michigan… And about fifteen years ago, there was a murder in Stanford, California.”

“What’s your point.”

“Dean, they were all exactly like Mom’s. I mean it, everything. Down to the letter. Two-story house, kid sleeping upstairs…” Dean gritted his teeth as Sam continued. “The markings. Everything, Dean. It’s the same.”

“Police said they’d never seen anything like it.”

“Yeah, I know, but these murders happened way before the internet, and they’d all been tossed into cold-case files, so no one—”

“So, everything the police said, everything Dad did—”

“—Dean—”

“—was a lie?”

“No, Dean, not at all—that’s not at all what I’m saying. For Christ’s sake, there’s no way Dad could have known about them!”

“Why are you telling me this.” There was a knot sitting sharply in Dean’s throat. “Do you… do they know who…?” He couldn’t finish the sentence.

“I… no, Dean. No, I’m sorry. They’re still unsolved.” And that made sense. That made perfect sense, but there was still a part of Dean, the part digging his palm into the rough splinters of the wood behind him, that was disappointed. He tried hard to focus on Sam’s voice as he kept speaking. “Dean, I’m telling you all this because I’m… I’ve been working on it. I’m trying to compile the details.

“Dean, I’m trying to figure out  _who killed Mom_.”

A still, almost unbreathable silence settled into the distance of air between them. Dean sweltered under the sun, the phone plastered to his ear and his hands shaking. It was a good thing Sam did not pressure him to speak, because Dean genuinely could not form a word. There was too much in his mind, too much weight in his chest—new murders, his father’s work… the question if his father had known what Sam had known, would he have been able to do something with the information? Would things have been different?

Dean clenched his fists. Suddenly, and more than anything, Dean wanted something he hadn’t wanted in a long time—he wanted to look up across the dirt paved parking lot and see his father walking the distance towards him, closing the door of the Impala, and coming to him,  _being_  with him, being here, alive, standing next to him and telling Sam what to do. Dean needed that assurance, because he did not know what to tell Sammy, what to say; he didn’t know what to do.

What felt like hours later, Dean found his voice. “Sammy?”

“Yeah?” He didn’t miss a beat; he had been waiting patiently the whole time.

“Sammy—” Dean’s voice cracked and he laughed it away. “I gotta tell ya, I don’t think it’s worth it… I mean, come on, this is a long shot, yeah?”

Dean could almost see Sam shrug. “Yeah, but… I mean it’s worth it, isn’t it?” When Dean didn’t respond, Sam spoke again. “I’ve been looking around, and I talked with Harvelle and Sons, and I think they might have an internship position for me—”

“Wait, what?”

“Well I can’t do this research about Mom  _here_ , Dean, I need access to the department in Bennington—”

“Sammy, no—”

“ _Yes_ , Dean. It’s all worked out.”

“You can’t… you can’t come back here! Your degree…”

“Hey, I thought you wanted me back in town. The two of us, the farm…”

“But…” Dean looked up at the sky, grateful for a passing cloud. “Sam…”

“Dean, relax. I’ll wrap up my summer session, then come back and finish next year. I’m taking a leave of absence.”

“Does that… does it even work that way?”

“Sure.”

There was something about the way he said it that convinced Dean Sam was lying. Dean shook his head, turning on the spot and thumping his forehead against the red wood. “Sammy….”

“So anyway, I’ll be seeing you in about a week. How are things at the Orchard? How’s that Castiel guy working out?”

“Can’t you wait to do this, Sam,” Dean was not to be deterred. “You’re gonna graduate in a _year_.”

Sam paused. “I think we’ve waited long enough, don’t you?”

And Dean couldn’t say no to that. God help him, he couldn’t. He  _should_  have said no; he should have said that it had been twenty years, and they needed to let it go, let it go like their father never could; he should have said that the future was more important. But Sammy was coming  _home_.

Beneath his shuddering lids Dean could see everything that could have been, the life he and his could have lived if their mother had never died—how he himself might be in college now, in graduate school… how he could come home to the orchard and sit with his parents, who were happy, full of love, and  _alive_ …

The sun appeared again from behind a cloud. Dean and Sam said their goodbyes. Dean waited for as long as he could before he went inside again, long enough to invent a lie and be able to say it when he was asked by Castiel if everything was alright, which he did the moment Dean opened the door.

“Is everything alright?”

“Yeah. He was just checkin’ in, to see how we were doing.”

Dean barely met his gaze, but there was a look in Castiel’s eyes that said for certain that he didn’t quite believe him.

———————————-

Sam arrived at Bennington Municipal Airport, and of course Dean was there when he did. Most of Sam’s luggage had been shipped, but as it was Dean was carrying a heavy bag and a roller suitcase. Their actual presence in his hands kicked Dean’s mind into gear. Somehow, Dean had assumed, or wanted to assume, that Sam’s big move was going to fall through—that reason would prevail and Sam would stay in Stanford. Seeing him now, with practically all of his worldly possessions, made the ride back to Dean’s apartment a difficult one. The entire time that Sam was chatting to him amicably, Dean was gripping the steering wheel tightly and biting his tongue.

It had taken Dean a week, but he finally felt like he had the strength to say what he needed to say. Unfortunately, it was one week too long, and Sammy was smiling at him, telling him some story about some party he had gone to and some girl who had been there, and Dean just wasn’t listening. They walked up the steps to his apartment, Sam laughing at his own joke as Dean opened the door, forcing a smile as he tossed the bag onto the couch.

“And then,” Sam laughed, “Dude pops out, no joke, from the freaking cabinet. Like, none of us even knew he was there, the whole time. It was hilarious!”

“Yeah, sounds like.” Dean gave a noncommittal nod. “Listen, the place is kinda a dump, but you’re more than welcome to…”

“Oh yeah, no, of course. Thank you so much for letting me stay with you.”

Dean shrugged. “You’re my brother. Not gonna leave you out in the cold.”

“More like heat! Jesus, it’s hot this summer.”

“‘S hot every summer, Sam. Beer?” He walked to the kitchen as Sam seated himself.

“You know what I mean. Like,  _especially_  hot.”

Dean stopped, staring into the fridge. Then he closed it abruptly. “How long are we gonna keep doing this, Sam.”

“Doing what?”

“Talking about the weather. Some dumb-ass party you went to. Talking about stupid shit and dancing around what we should be talking about.”

“What do you—”

“Dammit, Sammy, what are you doing here?” Dean turned to him, his arms gesturing emphatically as he leaned against the kitchen’s support wall. “I’m not fucking stupid, Sam. I know you can’t just pick up and go back to law school like it’s no big—”

“Well, I’ll have to re-apply, but yes I can.”

“Sam, you had a goddamn scholarship. And you fucking left out on it?”

Sam shrugged. “This was more important.”

“Since—” Dean’s mouth flapped. “Since fucking when? Don’t even try to pretend this has _ever_  meant as much to you as it meant to me, to Dad—”

Sam stood up, fast. “ _Fuck_  you.”

“Come on, Sam—you never even fucking  _knew_  her and now you’re giving up a scholarship to chase a  _fantasy_?” He didn’t know when they had started shouting at each other, but now that they were, they couldn’t seem to stop. Sam’s nostrils were flaring and Dean’s hands folded themselves into fists. He couldn’t stop his mouth as it kept running. “She’s fucking _dead_ , Sammy! Been dead for years, and just what the fuck makes you think you can figure it out if Dad couldn’t?”

“Don’t you  _ever_!—” Sam towered over him, his rage suddenly so palpable that Dean took a step back. “Don’t you  _ever_  think for one second you loved Mom more than me.”

Dean’s jaw dropped, and his voice dropped dangerously low. “How the fuck  _could_  you love her, Sam. You don’t even remember her.”

And that was it. Silence fell like a weight of bricks between them; it was unmovable. Breathing heavily, Dean finally turned on the spot, seeing spots behind his eyes as his hands trembled with rage. He violently tried to ignore the roaring pain in his stomach as his words echoed in his ears and he regretted every one of them. He took a deep breath, shaking. “I’m gonna… I’ll be staying at Bobby’s. So if you…” He didn’t finish. He couldn’t look Sam in the eyes, and without another word, he walked out of the apartment and stormed into his car.

——————————————

He hadn’t talked to Bobby that night, and had refused conversation in the morning. Bobby left to run errands, and Dean was scheduled to meet up with Castiel at the orchard. Leaning heavily on a schedule’s demands, Dean ordered himself to action and drove up the mountain to meet him. But the windows to the store were black when he arrived, and Dean stepped out of his car to discover a note taped to the door:  _Up at the house. Meet me there?_

Cold dread seemed to swallow Dean from behind, but he was still so ragged from his fight with Sam that Dean could almost ignore it, shoving the fear aside as he returned to the car and made the drive, for once his mind so occupied he didn’t see his childhood memories amongst the dark rows of trees.

It wasn’t until he reached the house that Dean realized he hadn’t seen it since Castiel had started his renovations. Now that it was in front of him, Dean remembered Castiel saying something about the primary work being completed earlier this week. He stepped out of the car and stared up, his jaw lax. The house was now a light grey. The window shutters were painted black, and the trim was a shocking white contrast. Dean eyed the front door, now red, with a large, beautiful, paneled glass inset in the center. The porch had been straightened, and a banister had been added to it in white. Castiel had even placed a bench-swing at the end. It swung lazily in the hot breeze, and Dean was completely struck by how peaceful it looked.

Everything was different.

The front door opened, and Castiel popped his head out, smiling gently. “I thought I heard your car.” He flushed, seemingly shy for a moment as he stepped onto the porch, looking around him. “…What do you think?”

Dean opened his mouth to reply, finding himself stunned into silence. This house, this once pale ghost, was almost an entirely new creature, and Dean found himself completely confused. He did not know what to feel. “It’s… very nice.”

“Come in, I can show you the inside.”

Dean snapped his eyes back to Castiel, watching as the man’s face changed with sudden realization. “I mean, that is… if you want to, of course…” He trailed off, but Dean’s eyes focused behind Castiel at the light glowing from the interior, his nose catching the smell of something fresh and clean. He swallowed, nodded, and walked up the steps to join him.

“Yeah, sure. Show me.”

Castiel smiled his relief; a big, toothy grin that was so disarming Dean felt like his heart was lighter just looking at it. He walked through the open door and stood in the entry way, watching as Castiel passed him and, for a moment, completely forgot where he stood.

But then, of course, the door shut behind him and he remembered; the sound of it closing was too familiar in the space surrounding him. He looked at the stairs to his right, at the living room to his left, and he was very grateful Castiel spoke just then, so Dean could have something to lean on.

“I took out all the tile, of course, and put in the wooden floors. They run throughout the bottom floor, into the kitchen and living room, as you can see.” Dean peeked into the den, natural light pouring in from the wide open windows, noting all the beiges and blacks and nodding at the walls. “You really like grey.”

“Hmm? Oh!” Castiel laughed slightly, folded his hands together. “I just thought it was calming.”

Dean blinked at him, suddenly noticing that Castiel was watching him intently. “I’m ok, you know.”

Castiel’s brows crinkled with doubt as he looked at him for confirmation, and Dean felt his heart warm. He patted him on the shoulder, letting his hand linger there as he repeated, “I’m _fine_.”

And as he said it, he meant it. He looked around the house, running his hands along the black stair-railing, looking at the framed pictures of yellow flowers along the wall. With great fascination, he began to move himself forward through the house, his eyes capturing everything and turning it around and backwards in his mind. He stepped into the kitchen, and his mother was at the sink with the dishes, and he was talking up to her, clenching at her jeans and asking for something… he couldn’t remember what. Dean smiled, slowly, his eyes adjusting as they landing squarely on a 1950s, sea-green refrigerator in the back corner.

“That is a sweet fridge, Cas.”

Dean could feel Castiel approach over his shoulder and didn’t have to look to see the man blushing as he said, “Well… I thought it might suit the place.”

Dean laughed, turning on the spot and staring through the open wall into the dining area. He leaned back and smiled, taking it in, letting his gaze fall on Castiel, who smiled gently.

“Would you like to see upstairs?”

Dean nodded. “Hell yeah I would.”

Castiel moved ahead of him, Dean half listening, half inhaling the scent of the house, as Castiel talked about his new, energy-efficient windows, his electric water heater, how much the new bathroom and kitchen had ended up costing him. Dean’s eyebrows raised; he had completely forgotten that, while he and Castiel had been working on refurbishing the store, Castiel had  _also_  been doing all of this. Dean was so astounded by everything around him that he practically bumped into him at the top of the stairs as he turned to show him to new bathroom.

One by one, they visited each bedroom, Dean eyeing the corner where he had slept as a boy, now being used as an office, and remembering just where his parents’ bed had been, how his mother had kept her necklaces on her dresser and how his father had hung up his coats on the outside of the closet door.

The last room they visited was Sam’s. As Dean leaned against the doorframe, he saw his younger brother, still in his crib, smiling up at him through the bars. Dean’s heart thumped loudly in his chest, and Castiel came to stand next to him, turning his body to Dean’s so they could both fit in the doorway at the same time. He looked at Dean, his eyes heavy. “What is it?”

“Hmm?” Dean pulled his gaze to the present and looked at Castiel.

“I’m sorry if any of this upset you. I wasn’t thinking when I left that note, asking you up here—”

“Cas, I’m fine. This house… what you’ve done.” He shrugged at his lack of words. “It’s awesome.”

Castiel smiled again, that lovely broad smile that Dean found so companionable. Dean shook his head. “It’s just… this was Sammy’s room.”

“Oh. And, that’s right!” Castiel’s eyes brightened. “Isn’t he coming in to town this week?”

“Yesterday.” Dean’s voice dropped so low that it wasn’t hard to understand why Castiel looked at him so strangely and asked him, “What’s wrong?”

Dean sighed. He hadn’t intended to talk about it. He was not going to, at all, but he found himself opening his mouth and speaking anyway. “He quit school, Cas. One year left, and he quit. I don’t…” He trailed off, but Castiel held up a hand.

“What would be so important for him to quit school, Dean?” When Dean said nothing, Castiel continued, slowly. “Does Sam want the land back?”

“What? No, no. Believe me, he doesn’t want this place. Both of us were glad when we got away from here. Sam…” Dean looked down. “Sam most of all, I think. He left first anyway.”

Castiel leaned his head back, knocking it gently against the white molding there. He didn’t say anything, he simply waited, and eventually Dean spoke.

“He thinks he’s figured out how to solve Mom’s murder.” Dean shook his head angrily. “Which is stupid. That’s not gonna happen.”

“Why does he think that  _now_?”

“Because he says he found some new stuff and there were murders like hers and—it doesn’t matter! The guy who killed her is never going to get caught. I’ve faced that reality, why can’t he?”

Castiel opened his mouth, but Dean cut him off. “And besides, Sam’s never even talked about—he has never even  _talked_  about finding her killer, Cas. That was Dad, that was me or Bobby… Sammy never talked about it.”

Castiel nodded into the pause. “That doesn’t mean he never thought about it.” Dean said nothing, so Castiel spoke again, looking Dean squarely in the eyes. “Put yourself in Sam’s shoes. If you had found something out—”

“—I wouldn’t have.”

“Yes, well, if you had: wouldn’t you have given up everything to follow that lead, no matter how small a lead it may have been?”

“Yes, I would have.” Dean’s jaw tightened. “But I’ve already seen one man give up everything to solve her murder. Jesus…” Dean ran a hand through his hair. “I mean, Sammy is supposed to be free of it. Sammy was never supposed to live this life. Me, oh, _me_ …” He laughed humorlessly. “ _I_  could have lived it. Gone into the Force, like my Dad. Never stop searching. And what, so I didn’t, and that makes me a bad son?”

“You’re not a bad son, Dean.”

“Yes, I  _am_! Because Sam’s trying to solve her murder, and I just gave up.” There were tears behind his eyes and on his cheeks before he could stop them. “I’ve given up; I’m the bad son and I just…” He looked up at Castiel. “I just want Sam to go away. To get out of here. Sam can’t… He cannot become my Dad.”

And he thought back to his words, the last things he yelled at Sam, at his father, and he shuddered, throwing a hand over his eyes and heaving behind it… Taking deep breaths, he tried to pull himself together, when he felt a warm hand grip his left shoulder and another slide fingers around his wrist, tugging his hand away from his eyes. Dean looked up; he had forgotten Castiel was there, and was momentarily stunned at his presence, stunned at the warmth that was in his eyes.

“Dean Winchester, you are  _not_  a bad son.”

“How do you know?” He meant to ask that sarcastically, but his heart was too involved to leave itself out entirely. Castiel tilted his head to the side.

“Dean, that was one of the very first things I learned about you: that you were a loving son, devoted to his family. One of the very first things.”

Dean shook his head, but Castiel continued. “You and Sam are coping with the loss of your father in two very different ways. And yes,” he added at Dean’s look. “I think this is very much about your father’s death. But in both cases, you are filled with a  _tremendous_  loss, and a tremendous love for your family,” He paused, and only then Dean noticed that Castiel’s fingers were still laced around his wrist, hand still resting on Dean’s shoulder. “And you both love, and miss, your mother.  _And_  your father.”

Dean stared at him, and after a moment, Castiel released him and leaned back, nonchalantly shoving his hands into his pockets. “I’m very glad you like the house. I was a little scared you might hate the changes, but… anyway.” He turned and walked to the stairs. “When you have a moment, I wanted to talk to you about our grand opening, if I could.”

Dean found his voice. “Two weeks, right?”

Castiel nodded, his foot on the top step. “Yes, two weeks.” He paused, then added, softly. “You should tell your brother all of this, you know. I’m sure he’d like to hear it.”

Dean watched him as he disappeared. He felt warm, like the heat from Castiel’s palms had fried the circuits in his skin. Unconsciously, he gripped his wrist in the same manner Castiel had held it, looking around him slowly once again. He was standing in the past and the present, and the future, all in one space and time.

He gathered himself, returned down the stairs, and spoke with Castiel about the opening. Then he called Sam. They met over lunch, and Dean told him everything.


	5. Growing Tall in the Shade

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The restaurant opens.

The yellow drill buzzed itself loudly into the ground, throttling back against Dean’s hand as the screw locked into place. Dean gave an experimental tug on the bench leg and smiled as it did not move. He stood up to take in his work, his back suddenly aching and the sweat running down his t-shirt. He’d poured the concrete slabs himself a week and a half ago. Castiel had picked out the benches. They were simple, like something one would find in a park. The two benches stood on either side of the entrance to the store, and now that they were screwed down, they certainly weren’t going anywhere easily. Dean found himself thinking it would be nice to have a few scattered out near some of the bigger trees in the orchard, offering a place to stop and rest in a bit of shade. Dean squinted, raising a hand to shield his eyes. He would kill for some shade now, he thought as he wiped the sweat off his brow, standing in the barren parking lot in front of the store.

Dean made a mental note. He really had to stop thinking of this place as a store, a place to sell pies in the summer and fall. It looked every bit the real article now. He looked back up to the entrance, saw the sign Castiel had painted and Dean had hung there:  _Winchester Restaurant_.  It was a simple name—too simple, really, but they hadn’t been able to think of anything better, or anything that didn’t make Dean cringe. Seeing everything put together now… it was disconcerting, but pleasing all at once, and Dean thought that he ought to be getting used to that mixed feeling about now.

The outdoor speaker crackled and popped above his head, and Dean grimaced until it steadied out into an XM station. He puzzled for a moment, then folded his arms tightly, mumbling “God damn it…” He threw open the door, thrusting himself back inside into the cool. “Cas,” he called as a way of an entrance. He looked around, seeing Bobby wrapping up utensils into paper napkins. Castiel ducked behind the bar, the top of his head just visible. “I thought we discussed this: no country music.”

Castiel straightened, his eyes and hands busy with the radio. “This town seems to favor it, Dean.”

“Yeah, well, I don’t.” Quickly, Dean crossed the space between them, leaning himself across the bar and knocking Castiel’s hands out of the way, switching the station. “Classic rock, man. Seriously.” He looked up, mouth half-formed around a thought, but it fell away suddenly; Castiel was staring at him, his lips slightly parted, and his eyes wide. Dean blinked at him, uncomfortable. “What?”

Castiel shook himself, seeming to come to out of his reverie. “Nothing I… you just… look like you need some water.” Castiel made himself busy behind the counter, filling up a glass for Dean and handing it to him.

“Thanks,” Dean said softly, still watching Castiel carefully. “You sure you’re alright, man?”

“Yes, I’m… Classic rock, then?”

“Definitely. Right Bobby?” Dean tossed over his shoulder.

“Leave me out of it,” Bobby said, still focused on his task. “I got a radio in the kitchen.”

“But you’ll be listening to rock.”

“No, I’ll be listening to my Yanni tapes. What the hell do you think.”

Dean turned to grin at Castiel, but discovered him gone, working his way around the counter and cleaning it up, speaking in a very business-like tone. “Have you double checked your list, Bobby? We have everything you need?”

“Got a couple things to pick up. Might run out and get them here in a bit.”

Dean leaned himself against the counter, sipping at his water. “What’s next on the list, Cas?”

Castiel hesitated, slowly seating himself at the table next to Bobby and glancing down at the paper work that was spread out in front of him. “Interviews,” he said shortly. “Getting one last host.”

Dean felt himself grimace. He’d sat in on the first few interviews and had completely disagreed with Castiel on everything. “Pick a pretty one this time Cas, ok?”

“I pick on ability, Dean, not looks.”

“Yeah, and that’s stupid. People like to see pretty waitresses.”

Castiel sighed irritably. “Well then you don’t have to sit in this time.”

“Good.” They were quiet then, the sounds of Led Zepplin filling the gaps in the room, Dean wondering what the hell had pissed Castiel off this time. Surely it couldn’t be the fucking music change. Dean sighed, then strolled casually over to the table, plonking down his drink and sitting backwards in a chair. “What kind of music would you want then?”

Castiel blinked and looked around at him, “What?”

“So you don’t want classic rock, ok—what kind of music do you like.”

“I don’t… I…” Castiel stared at him, then shook his head. “I don’t know. Classical, perhaps. I don’t dislike classic rock, Dean.”

“So what’s the problem?”

“There isn’t a problem!” Castiel practically slammed his hand onto the table, and though he recovered quickly, Dean sat back, watching Castiel’s chest heave slowly. Bobby looked between them, and when nothing was said, he addressed Dean.

“Were you planning on meeting your brother for lunch?”

“Huh?” Dean drug his eyes away from Castiel. “I didn’t… he said he’d be at the station all day, I mean—”

“I’ll call Jody, let her know you’re coming over. And you can get the stuff I need while you’re out.” He pulled a small strip of paper from his pocket and handed it to Dean.

“Bobby, I don’t wanna go there.”

“Why, cause your daddy died and everyone’s gonna give you baleful looks? Get over it, you wussy. I’m calling Jody. Get your ass into town and bring Sam a sandwich for God’s sake.”

Dean sat there for a moment longer, his jaw askew, before he stood, turning the chair back around and sliding it into place. “Fine.” He said bluntly. “Ok. Anything else while I’m gone?”

Bobby shook his head, returning to his task, and Dean stared at Castiel, who did not return the look. Dean felt like kicking over a chair. Which was childish, he knew, but he was being tossed out of the store for a small errand one  _day_  before opening. Was there honestly nothing left for him to do? He scanned quickly for a second, his eyes gauging the state of the place, when it slowly began to dawn on him. They were ready. All the things they had done today, yesterday, were last minute things. The store—the restaurant—looked finished.

So Dean couldn’t figure out why the fuck Castiel suddenly had a stick shoved up his butt.

“Alright,” he said, hands up. “I’m leaving.”

“Dean—”

It was remarkably uncool how quickly Dean turned around to see Castiel, who was looking up at him almost shamefaced. “Can you… swing by the Starbucks, please? I just need to make sure our posters are still there….”

“Sure, Cas. Of course.”

It wasn’t an apology, exactly, but it was good enough for Dean. Good enough to keep him in lighter spirits as he drove down the hillside into the network of downtown. As a general rule, Dean tried to avoid going into town as much as possible. He did not particularly enjoy the feeling he got when he walked the streets. The longer he lived here, however, the more he wondered if that feeling were unfounded. Yes, his father had garnered many a look and stare in concern, a passer-by stopping him to tell him just how awful Mary’s death was, but Dean hardly received any of that. Maybe he had moved away long enough to be less of a fixture. Or maybe the town was just getting younger. Dean highly doubted any of the baristas at Starbucks were old enough to have ever heard about, let alone old enough to remember, when the Winchester murder had unfolded. They smiled at Dean, friendly, asking if he’d like a coffee. And he was about to pass with a “No thanks,” when it occurred to him that Sam probably loved this stuff. He ordered the girliest thing on the menu, and then turned to find the cork-boards by the door, double checking their poster.

He, Bobby, and Castiel had debated over the time table for the restaurant. Castiel had dreamed a bit too ambitiously, and Dean and Bobby had had to cut him down to size. They eventually agreed to only run dinner times, 5-8:30 PM, Tuesday through Saturday. If everything was successful, in two months, they’d consider opening for lunch or brunch times. He stared at the advert, absurd pride worming its way uncomfortably in his stomach, before he turned reluctantly to leave.

Dean drove slower and slower as he got close to the station. He parked on the street and hesitated, checking the sandwiches and chips he had bought for Sam and himself. He triple-checked them, then unfolded the newspapers in his lap, biding his time as he checked the advertisements there. Castiel hadn’t asked him to do that, but Dean figured he might appreciate it… never mind the fact that two newspapers had turned up outside the store’s door every day for a week and they had all checked out. Dean sighed, and stared back up at the grandiose building in front of him. He had hated those columns as a kid, and as a teen. Hated the sight of them as they’d pull up in the back of his father’s squad car, how his father couldn’t meet his eyes as he pulled his own handcuffed son through the doors and into a cell.

Oh yeah, he could just imagine how thrilled Jody would be to see yet another Winchester walk through her doors.

But as it turned out, she actually was.

Dean found himself enveloped in the small woman’s arms, yanked down to her level as she hugged him hard, back and forth. She pulled away, keeping her hands on his shoulders and looking at him. “Dean Winchester. You turned into a handsome son of a bitch. Of course, your father was handsome, and your mother was beautiful. Family genes like that, none of the rest of us stand a chance.”

Dean blinked at her, so completely thrown that he didn’t know what to say. Which seemed fine, because Jody was speaking enough to fill the gap for him. Dean suspected she was talking to fill the silence, but he was grateful for it. “Your brother’s in the back—don’t suppose you got another sandwich in that bag for me too, huh?”

“Oh, I—”

“Of course you don’t, which is fine.” She turned and led him down the hallway, nodding occasionally at the officers that passed them by. “Been a long time since you been here; as you can see we’ve spruced the place up. Got lots of construction going on, fixin’ the air conditioning system. Shit, Dean, it was hot as hell this summer. Global warming, I guess. Oh, and I’m Sheriff now, but I’m sure Bobby’s told you that.” Dean opened his mouth to give his congratulations, when she suddenly turned, opening a door and looking up at Dean squarely with her bright, scrutinizing eyes. “You doin’ alright, Dean?”

It was asked with such feeling, that Dean couldn’t help but feel completely affected. He knew that, even with only one sentence, she was somehow acknowledging everything in his life, everything that had happened since she had last seen him. Slowly, with a slight nod and a genuine, small smile, Dean replied, “Yeah, ‘m ok.”

“Good.” Then they were on the move again, turning down basement stairs and flicking on lights as they went. “Bobby actually cookin’ at that restaurant of yours?”

“Yeah, he is. Opening tomorrow night, you coming?”

“You bet I’m coming.” She laughed loudly. “I haven’t tasted Bobby’s cooking in  _years_ , Dean. Glad you got him off his ass.” They stopped as she pointed to the last door in the hall. “Your brother’s in there, knee deep in files.” She looked him in the eyes sincerely. “It’s a good thing you came by, Dean. He’s been a machine.”

She clapped him on the shoulder and disappeared as Dean opened the door, uncovering his brother much as she had described him. He was hunched over a foldout card-table, file boxes stacked around and under him, metal bookcases behind him piled high with various cold cases from years past. He didn’t even look up until Dean shut the door loudly, crossing to Sam and plopping the brown paper bag in the center of the papers scattered in front of him.

“Dean!” Sam quickly snatched it off of the file he was reading, hand held underneath it as if it were leaking. “Dude—”

“Lunch time, Sammy! And food is more important than anything else.”

“Oh really.” Sam raised an eyebrow, leaning back and accepting the coffee Dean offered him. “More important than anything?”

“Well.” Dean considered. “There are some exceptions. Got you a Vanilla Frap with whipped cream. I had those sprinkles added extra.”

Sam pulled a face and opened his bag. “So thoughtful of you.”

“You’re welcome.” Dean smirked, grabbing a fold-out chair and sitting. He and Sam tucked in to their sandwiches, and halfway through the agreeable silence, as they sighed over their meals, Dean grabbed the edge of a file and drug it towards him, opening it up and reading.

“Do you ever wonder how we can do this?” asked Sam, thoughtfully. “Read or watch totally grotesque things and still be able to eat?”

“Were all these chicks named Mary?”

“Yes. M-W. Mary Wickes, Mary Williams, Mary Wilkins… Mary Winchester.” Sam paused. “It’s really not normal. But I mean, we’ve always been able to watch Discovery channel nature shows and still eat dinner.”

“Middle names the same initial?”

“Huh? Oh, no.” Sam chewed thoughtfully. “We should have been surgeons.”

“Like I had the grades for being a surgeon. Or the patience. You, on the other hand…” Dean pulled more of the files to him, the scattered photos peeking out from the paper clip. “I thought you said the markings were identical.”

“They are. Well, I mean, they are in their nature. Not like, identical swirls or stuff, not like mirror-images, but knife-depth, location, and general patterns: they are identical.”

“Made by the same hand, you mean.”

“Exactly.”

Dean swallowed loudly, nodding. He hesitated a moment before pulling another file to him. “It’s cause we always did this.”

“Hmm? What?”

“It’s cause Dad would take work home with him, and we’d eat dinner, and we’d see the pictures from the case.”

Sam looked at him. “He never wanted us to see those pictures.”

“Yeah, but we did.” Dean returned the gaze. “You know a part of us wanted to see it anyway.”

“Not really,” Sam said quietly, looking down at his sandwich. He very suddenly folded it back into its wrapper and sat very still.

“You comin’ to the opening?”

Sam looked up, smiling slightly. “Wouldn’t miss it.”

“Good. You better not. Got you a table reserved.”

They were silent for a long time, the only sound was Dean slurping at his straw and crunching on his chips. He had pulled out a transcript of an interview for Mary Wickes’s murder, where the officers were questioning the neighbor from across the street, when Sam spoke, very quietly. “I miss her, Dean.”

Dean stopped reading, stopped chewing, and looked at Sam, watching as Sam stared down at the table.

“I mean,” Sam said. “I know that sounds stupid. Because you’re right, I never knew her. But I…. I miss her. I really do.”

Dean blinked slowly, his eyes falling to Sam’s unfinished meal, to the papers littered in front of them. Very quietly, he said, “I miss her too.”

———————————————-

Opening day, and Dean could tell Bobby was nervous. Dean watched his hands shake as he turned the burners on, and for the first time since Dean had made him quit the drink, Dean felt like Bobby was really missing it. But Dean didn’t even have the chance to check in with him before Bobby was shaking him away, running Dean back into the main part of the store.

It was an hour before they opened the doors, and Castiel was pacing the floor. He wasn’t frantic, but he was clearly distracted. One of their waiter hires was late, and no one could get him on the phone. Dean walked slowly to Castiel as the other man stopped moving. “Still can’t get him on the phone?” Dean asked, quietly.

“No. Karol can’t reach him either. They’re apparently friends.”

Dean couldn’t tell what word Castiel said with more disdain,  _apparently_  or  _friends_. Dean sighed, nodding. “Well, there’s still time.”

“I had them called an hour and a half early for a reason, Dean.”

“Yeah, ok, I get it.”

They were silent for a moment as Castiel looked at his watch again. Dean glanced at him. “You look nice.”

Castiel snapped his gaze to Dean, his eyes almost wild. “What?”

“You look nice.” Dean repeated, sticking his hands in his pockets and looking down at the floor. “Makes me feel underdressed. Didn’t know you had more than the one suit.”

Glancing back up with a smile, Dean caught the guard falling down around Castiel’s face, his eyes flickering back and forth between Dean’s. “You’re not underdressed.”

“Hard to look classy in jeans, though.” Dean softened his voice. “Want me to go home and change?”

Castiel smiled at him, fondly. “Do you even have a suit?”

“I happen to own a very nice suit, yes.”

Castiel’s smile became a grin, and he chuckled slightly. “You don’t have to change, Dean.”

“Good. Hate suits anyway.” He watched the new recruits scramble about for a moment, busying themselves to whatever tasks Castiel had set them to, and then he decided to ask the question, since Castiel clearly wasn’t going to talk about it. “You nervous?”

Beside him, Castiel shuddered slightly, his voice small. “Terrified.”

Dean watched him carefully. “Cas, it’s gonna be fine.”

Castiel was nodding, but he didn’t say anything. Dean opened his mouth to speak again, but one of the waiters called Castiel over for help, and Dean lost his chance.

He was still thinking about what else to say to comfort him when the doors opened, and the customers started to arrive.

Maybe it was all the advertising. Maybe it was the family name. By six there was a wait-line outside on the benches, and by six-thirty Bobby was practically pulling out his hair. Astounded by the numbers of people who were showing up at the door, Dean found himself bouncing back and forth between the kitchen and the bar, tying an apron around his waist, elbow deep in dishwashing and refilling the kegs with fresh ones from the back. He squeezed past the waiters, flying through the doorway weighed down with platefuls of steaming mashed potatoes, bowls of chowder, and baskets of biscuits that were flying out of the oven forty at a time. He peeked through the crowd, tapping one of the prettier waitresses on the shoulder. “Did that other guy ever show up?”

“Who, Kyle?”

Dean pulled a face and nodded. “Whatever. Did he ever make it?”

“No, haven’t seen him.”

“Ok. Ok, and—spit out your gum!” She rolled her eyes at him and Dean stared after her in shock as she walked away. “Geez— _amateur_  hour. Bobby, I’m probably gonna hafta go wait tables. You ok back here?”

Bobby didn’t answer, waving a hand at Dean instead, shooing him away. For the next hour, Dean was going from table to table to kitchen. He was amazed at how much of the menu he actually remembered off the top of his head, although he did consider himself the authority on the question: “What’s good here?” When Sam arrived, Dean dropped everything and went to him as he stood agape in the doorway.

“Dean! There are people leaving, it’s so packed—should I—?”

“No, you idiot, no.” Dean clapped him on the shoulder. “Had to combine your table with Jody’s, for whenever she gets here. Should be soon, hope you don’t mind.”

“Not at all.”

“Just don’t talk business, ok? It’s dinner time, you two leave work at the office!”

Dean led him to a table in the back and didn’t even bother taking Sam’s order. He and Bobby had already planned his brother’s meal out entirely. He was halfway to the back to give the order to Bobby when a thought occurred to him. “Hey, uh,” He hesitated, stopping a passing waitress. “Dana?”

“Yeah?”

Dean gave himself a mental pat on the back for getting that name right. “You seen Castiel around?”

“Uh…” She paused, looking about. “Nope.”

Dean chewed on his lips as she walked away. Taking a guess, he burst through the kitchen and out the back door, tossing a shout over his shoulder as he passed. “Bobby, Sam’s here. Get him started, wouldja?”

He didn’t wait to hear Bobby’s response. The door closed behind him, and he was suddenly overwhelmed by the sound of crickets and the sharp, bright, blue outdoor light hanging overhead. A fat moth flapped lazily into Dean’s head, and he shook it away, peering around him at the dark. “Cas?”

To his right, near the fence, Dean saw a dark shadow move under the lone apple tree growing there, a straggler from the orchard rows that had grown so much taller out of the shade of his brothers. In a few seconds, Dean had jogged up to Castiel’s side, blinking as he adjusted to the dark. “Cas, you ok?”

“Yes, Dean,” came the quiet reply. “You were looking for me?”

Dean panted slightly, trying to read the man’s face in the night. “Well…” he began, but didn’t finish.

“I just needed… I needed some air.”

“Ok…” Dean waited. “How long have you been out here?”

Castiel finally sighed and shifted his feet. He couldn’t meet Dean’s eyes, and after a few moments Dean was about to ask him again what was wrong, when suddenly, Castiel, his head turned up to the sky, exclaimed, “I have to talk to  _people_ , Dean.”

“That’s… why you’re out here?” Dean’s eyes crinkled, and for a moment he thought Castiel was making some sort of strange joke. “You’re hiding?”

The quiet little “yes” that he received should have invoked pity within him. It should have stirred empathy in Dean, and while it  _did_ , what actually happened was that Dean burst out laughing. “Wait, are you  _serious_?”

“It’s not funny, Dean.”

Dean couldn’t talk. He folded himself over and leaned on the tree for support, opening his mouth to try to apologize but nothing came out.

“Dean, stop—stop laughing. This cannot be that surprising to you. You know me. I live in a house miles from anywhere, I don’t… I don’t—”

“Cas, seriously, you’re—you’re freaked out about  _conversation_? But you’re great at it, Cas.”

“Oh I think you can attest, Dean, that I am  _not_.”

Dean straightened, wiping the tears of mirth from his eyes and trying very hard not to smile. “Well, have you… have you talked to anyone yet?”

“Yes, sort of. Some people, in the beginning. But then they just kept coming in and I…” Castiel sighed, hanging his head. “I didn’t think this through, did I?”

“Apparently not, no.” Dean couldn’t stop himself, he laughed again, though this time with more control and happily rewarded with a smile from Castiel. Dean pulled his hands up to Castiel’s shoulders and shook him gently. “Seriously, Cas. You can do this.”

“Dean…”

“It’s just a bunch of bullshit with people who don’t matter.”

“But they do matter…” Castiel hesitated, and by now Dean could see clearly enough in the dark that there was something behind Castiel’s eyes: a greater fear than Castiel was  outwardly acknowledging. “Do you think it’ll always be this busy?”

“Nah, Cas. No way. It’s opening night in a small town. People are curious and have nothing else to do. I give it a week, tops. Half of these people probably think it tastes like shit.” Castiel smiled, so much relief in his eyes that Dean found himself confused. He stared at him. “I don’t get it Cas, you want this thing to go under?”

“What? No, I… No. I just,” Castiel hesitated, “I just didn’t think it would ever be this busy. I mean, for God’s sake, our capacity is 50.”

Dean thought for a moment. “You want me to come with you?”

“No, Dean, no, that’s ok.” Castiel smiled at him. “I just need to…” He trailed off, clearly uncertain at what exactly he just needed to. Dean dropped his hands and squared up to him.

“Tell you what. My brother just got here. Why don’t you go meet him first, say hi, and then move on to the next table, and then the table after that, ok? One thing at a time?”

Slowly Castiel nodded. “Ok.”

Dean turned to lead Castiel back inside, and he had the strangest urge to take him by the hand, to squeeze his palm, and make sure he knew that everything was going to be alright. Instead, he wrapped an arm around Castiel’s shoulders, and together they walked back in through the kitchen. Separating as they entered the floor, Dean led the way over to Sam. When he introduced them to each other, he had the oddest sensation in the pit of his stomach; in that moment, he couldn’t decide which person he was more proud of.

Eventually, Dean nudged Castiel on to the next table, and brought out Sammy’s food. When Jody came in a few minutes later, Dean felt safe in returning to his duties, busing tables where needed and waiting where he could. Occasionally he would look up across the busy room and see Castiel, catch his eye, and send him an encouraging smile, receiving one in return.

For an opening night, for everything that went wrong, Dean knew that so much had gone right. Customers were leaving with smiles on their faces, many coming up to him and telling him how much they had liked it, how glad they were to see the orchard up and running again. One woman, kindness in her eyes, had gripped his arm in an intimate manner and said, “Your daddy would be right proud of you.”

As the doors locked behind the last leaving customers, Dean leaned against the counter of the bar with Sam. Together, they watched Bobby talk to Jody, who had stayed behind to “have a chat with the chef.” They watched as the waiters sat together with Castiel, counting tips, and refolding napkins and utensils for the following evening. Dean glanced at Sam, who returned his gaze.

“Think he would have been proud of this place, Sammy?”

“I know he would have been.”


	6. Harvest

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> It's time.

It was about a month after the opening, and things at the restaurant had started to settle into a very basic, simple rhythm. The average number of customers had steadily slacked away into something more manageable, yet they were by no means hurting for business. At this rate, Castiel was looking to turn a profit within the next month, and it was very satisfying for Dean to know that all their hard work, and all his family’s hard work, seemed here to stay. Four positive reviews from local newspapers and magazines (and one mediocre review) meant that, at least for awhile, things would be looking up. Dean cut out the best reviews and highlighted his favorite parts. With Sam’s help, he framed them, then gave one to Bobby, and gave the other to Castiel. The look on Castiel’s face was touching. He grabbed a nail and a hammer from a drawer and hung the review at the entryway of the restaurant, gazing at it.

“They misspelled your name,” Dean said, apologetically.

“That’s alright. I’m sure  _Casteel_  Allen also runs a pretty good business.” Castiel turned his grin to Dean.

“Yeah, I hear he does. I hear he’s even pretty good at talking to his customers, though he says he hates it.”

Castiel rolled his eyes. “If you ever actually heard some of those conversations—”

“Oh, I have over-heard snippets. The weather comes up quite frequently—”

“—Dean…”

“And you never seem to know what to do with your hands.” Castiel was shaking his head, attempting in vain to bury it in his chest. “But on the whole,” Dean concluded, “I’d say you do not do too bad, Cas.”

Castiel sighed. “Thank you very much for your approval.”

“You’re welcome.”

They smiled at each other for a moment, before Castiel straightened. “Are you walking the land today?”

Dean nodded. As the season faded into fall, the tree branches had become heavy with apples. Time was a careful game now. Dean walked the rows of trees daily to get a feel for the apples’ ripeness, checking to see that the green was fading completely into red.

“Excellent.” Castiel paused thoughtfully. “Well, before you do, can you come up to the house? I’d like you to check out the garage, now that it’s done.”

“Sure, yeah. Gimme a second to use the john, and I’ll meet you up there.”

When Dean pulled the Impala to a stop in front of the house, Castiel was waiting for him on the porch swing. He bounded to his feet and came down the stairs to meet him as Dean put the car into park and stepped out. There was a large grin on Castiel’s face. “So?”

“So…?”

“Did you see it?”

Dean had in fact, seen it. It was a large, three-car garage about twenty feet from the house’s left side. It was, as he suspected it would be, very grey to match the house. Dean had suggested Castiel put a garage in before winter came, to protect his car from the inevitable snow-drifts, but he hadn’t worried too much about the results. “Kinda hard to miss, Cas. It’s a big garage.”

“Yes, but…” Castiel turned, giving a quick little jog as he lead the way around the edge of the house. He stopped at its corner, waiting for Dean to catch up, then swung his arm outward in a vague attempt at a grandiose gesture. “Did you see  _it_?”

Dean stared for a moment, trying to figure out exactly what Castiel was talking about, when he heard a little moan of disappointment come from the man at his side.

“Oh, damn,” said Castiel. “That was supposed to be open so you could see…” Castiel ran to the garage’s side door, opened it, and pressed a button, resulting in the mechanical whir and grind of the garage bay on the far right lifting. He returned to Dean, the grin re-plastered to his face, watching as Dean’s jaw dropped.

“Castiel…” he said slowly. “What is that?”

“ _That_ ,” Castiel paused. “Is a thank you.”

Dean shook his head, his feet slowly walking him forwards. “A thank you? Cas… a thank you is a card, or a slice of pie… not a freaking  _tractor_.” He stopped in front of the green John Deere. It was a 5E Series. Standing at least Dean’s height, it had multiple settings and modes, and the ability to use an endless variety of attachments. Dean knew this because he had been staring at pictures of these things for weeks now, looking in a brochure he had picked up on a whim. He hadn’t thought Castiel had noticed. He shook his head in disbelief. “And just what the hell are you thanking me for, anyway? Cas, this—”

“It’s a gift, Dean.”

“It’s a really fucking  _expensive_  gift, Cas.”

Castiel sighed. “Well, it’s  _used_  if it makes you feel any better. I’m not completely made of money, you know.”

“I really doubt that.”

“Dean,” Castiel spoke, his voice suddenly serious. Dean turned to look over his shoulder, watching as Castiel closed the space between them. “It’s practical. We need it. Harvest is coming up soon, and anyway…” He paused, and Dean could almost see the air that he exhaled from his lungs. “I wanted to say thank you.”

“For  _what_ , Cas? All of  _this_? Everything good that’s happened in the past few months—you know that’s all  _you_ , right?”

Castiel’s eyes crinkled and his brow furrowed. He stared at Dean for a long moment before he finally said. “That’s not true.”

Dean shifted uncomfortably. He felt somehow irritated and angry, somehow inadequate.  Castiel spoke again, quietly. “Dean, just—just accept it, ok? Here’s the keys; go take it out to look at the trees. It’ll cut the time in half, I promise.”

That last bit was added as a sort of compromise, but it did little to affect Dean’s mood. Dean snatched the keys from him and climbed up with a set frown across his face. He fiddled around for a moment. Castiel looked up at him. “I could get the manual, if you’d like—”

“I don’t need the manual, Cas.” He watched as Castiel, hands up, retreated out of the shade of the garage, and let Dean do his business. Dean pondered at the machine underneath him, looking at what went where, what gauges read for what, and more specifically, he looked for the clutch, the gas, and the brake. When he found them, he turned the key in the ignition; as the beast roared to life beneath him, he felt himself smile as he shifted her into motion.

Rolling out into the sunlight, bouncing along in the high set springs, Dean was five years old again,  _three_  years old again, sitting on his father’s lap as they trundled out on winter days, on spring days, and Dean would reach up and grab a flower petal from a low branch overheard. He turned the wheel, and as he came upon a tree, reached his hand up and plucked an apple from the bough. His smile became a grin as he found himself going out of his way to run over things that could be run over—large rock? No problem. Dead branch that had been too large to move before? It snapped and cracked beneath the wide tires like it was a mere twig.

On his trek down and up the hillside, Dean triple checked the deer fencing and pesticide control, happy as he discovered that there were only a few trees on the edge of the land that seemed at all bothered. He traced the tractor into an elaborate path, working his way to his previously designated sampling of thirty trees, putting the tractor into park and swinging himself down elaborately from the seat. He had stationed tall ladders and empty baskets at their trunks, and Dean climbed up, slowly policing each level of the tree. Occasionally, he came across a few apples that were further ahead. He considered them for a moment, then, with a blossoming warmth in his chest, plucked as many as he could, dropping them gently into an empty basket. Settling it between his legs, he finished his rounds, gathering strays as he went, as he drove the tractor up the road to Castiel’s house. He reversed the tractor back into the garage, then marched around to the side door of the house and knocked loudly several times. When Castiel appeared, Dean thrust the apples under his chin.

“Are they ready?” Castiel asked, surprised, taking the bushel gently from Dean, adjusting suddenly to the weight of it as Dean released it to him.

“Not all of them. Just a few. Those. But the rest will be soon. I’ve got the standard crew set to come in to start picking next week, if you can do the advertisements in the paper..?”

“Of course, yes.”

They were silent for a moment, then Dean squared his shoulders. “Thank you. Sorry all I can give you in return is apples, but…”

Castiel watched him for a moment, then put the basket down at his feet and held out his hand. Dean accepted it, smiling at him, and Castiel spoke gently. “You give a lot more than apples, Dean.”

“Yeah, yeah…”

“Listen,” Castiel said, dropping their hands and stepping down to the ground to join Dean, the screen door shutting halfway closed behind him, catching on the hamper. “Did you see what else was in the garage?”

“Well, your car…”

“Yes, and…”

“And a flat bed trailer.” Castiel’s eyes lit mischievously, and Dean leaned his head back. “What?”

“You drove that tractor really well, Dean.”

“What do you want.”

“Looked good on it, too.”

Dean’s brows knitted together, and Castiel blinked up at him innocently. Dean felt his lips quirking up into a smile as he took a step back. “ _What_ , Cas?”

“How does a hay-ride sound?”

Dean grinned, winking. “I thought you’d never ask.”

Castiel blushed and laughed loudly. “I’m genuinely asking!”

“A hay-ride?”

“Yes! It’s fall, and the riders could pick their own apples…”

“The tractor was all a set up, wasn’t it?” Castiel simply shook his head softly, smiling as Dean thought the idea over. “Well, Cas, it sounds cheesy to me, but then again, I was against the restaurant too, so what do I know…” Dean hesitated. “Alright, hay-rides. But I’m not driving them.”

“What? Why not.”

Dean narrowed his eyes at him. “Why not? Dude, look at me.”

Castiel did so, furrowing his brow in confusion. “I don’t get it.”

“You know the only people who go for hay-rides and apple picking stuff are girl-scout troops and young, high-school couples.”

“So?”

“So? Look at this face. The guys will hate me for stealing their chick’s hearts, and the girl-scouts will just be all over this thing. I mean, I’d be good for business, but I don’t want to deal with that.”

“Oh, please…” Castiel scoffed. “Like you’re that handsome.” He turned to walk back into the house but Dean stopped him.

“I’m serious! Come on, name one guy as hot as me that you know. Come on.”

Castiel turned around fully, his jaw dropped. He seemed unsure of which was the best way to answer, when his eyes steeled up and his mouth set itself into a smirk. “Your brother.”

Dean gasped, and Castiel continued.

“He’s taller, too.”

“Well fine then, we’ll just let Sam lead your stupid hay-rides.”

“Oh, I dunno, he seems busy and important. I doubt he’s got time for it.”

Dean’s mouth worked as he nodded slowly, processing. “Fine, then.” He folded his arms, pointing behind Castiel into the house. “I want my apples back.”

Castiel stepped in front of them. “They were a gift.”

“Well I don’t want to give them anymore.”

“Well then I want my tractor back.”

“Fine, take it, it’s yours. You can give it to Bobby and then maybe  _he’ll_  drive the hay-rides for you.”

“Maybe he will!”

“Or you could just do it yourself, Mr. Agoraphobe.”

“Yes, maybe I could!”

Dean bit his lower lip, his heart pounding inexplicably loudly in his ears as he fought back a grin, his fingers itching his palms as he tried to think of something else to say. But instead he and Castiel just looked at each other for a moment, daring each other to speak or to do something; what that something was Dean couldn’t be sure of. At that moment, Dean started to feel something new and uncomfortable shudder within the bounds of his chest, and there was a white hot thought that bounced in his skull, too sudden or distinct to be read or understood. He stepped back, nodding absently, hearing himself mutter, “Well then, you just… you go do that, and I’ll…”

He stopped because he didn’t know what he was saying. Without another word, he turned and walked over to his car, firing the engine and driving a little too fast down the hillside.

—————————————

One week later, Dean was standing on a ladder, waist deep in tree boughs, as he picked ripened apples and handed them down to a picker he had hired. His father, and then the Braedens, had a contact who could give them reliable workers who needed the seasonal employment, and it was no trouble at all to call them in to get the assistance. It gave Dean exceptional pleasure to know that the workers he brought in to his farm were getting good pay—better pay than half the nearby farms—and were getting decent hours and breaks. He had stationed water coolers near every third tree, and where he could, demanded they go on breaks, though many insisted on working through them. They were aiming for at least one hundred barrels a day, and even though this was only the second day Dean had had anyone out, and they were working acre by acre, they were churning out nearly twice that number.

It was the most exhausting thing he felt like he had ever done. Every single part of him ached—his back, his hands, his neck. He and his workers settled into lunch breaks underneath the shade of the trees, and he chatted with those that he could. The crew were such a mixed set of colors and origins; Dean was fascinated by their stories. Some spoke English, and those that did not Dean spoke to in his broken Spanish. There were a couple of German dudes there as well, young teenagers sweeping through the states on their own dime. They were only going to stay for a week, but it was a week of cash and life experience. Some workers functioned on migratory seasons alone, traveling from state to state, never calling one place home. Dean identified with that lifestyle a little too much. It was still odd to be back in Bennington, calling it home again after years of hotel rooms and seedy apartments.

Dean looked up from his sandwich and chips, peering down the row of trees at the figure who slowly approached them. Recognizing the form, he grinned and stood to meet him, walking his half of the distance.

“I didn’t even know you owned a pair of jeans, Cas.”

“Hello, Dean.”

Dean sized him up for a moment. The plaid shirt was a really good look for him, albeit strange. Dean squinted against the sun as it appeared from behind a cloud, watching Castiel’s mouth as he spoke.

“Your phone doesn’t get good reception out here.”

Dean fished in his pocket and pulled it out; zero bars. He shrugged, frowning. “Is everything ok?”

“Have you seen Bobby today?”

Dean shook his head. “It’s Monday, Cas, day off.”

“No, I know that, but he and I had agreed to meet today at three and he’s not here, and neither he nor you were answering your phones.” Cas frowned irritably. “Honestly, what’s the point of even  _having_  phones if people don’t answer.”

Dean flushed for a moment. “I didn’t know you guys had plans. Bobby didn’t say anything.”

Castiel look up at him, his eyes narrowed. “Why?”

“Well…” Dean shifted, rubbing the back of his neck, still warm from the sun. “Jody kinda sorta… asked him on a date. And he was gonna say no, so I…”

Castiel smirked at him. “So you made him go.”

Dean bristled. “Look, it’s not like I could ever  _make_  Bobby do anything, but I just figured… he and Jody have been dancing around each other for years. And he’s sober for the first time in a long time, and he was nervous…” Dean looked at Castiel. “That’s probably why he didn’t mention anything else. I would have talked to you.”

Castiel sighed. “It’s alright. We made the arrangement a long time ago, anyway.”

“What was it about?”

“Well.” Castiel fidgeted, putting his hands in his pockets. “I felt a bit odd, owning a restaurant that was famous for its apple pies, and an orchard famous for its apples, and knowing so little about it, so I was going to…” his voice became quiet. “I was going to watch and learn how they’re made…” Castiel trailed off, and Dean smiled down at him.

“Really?”

“Yes. I know it seems silly. That’s why I didn’t ask you about it.”

Dean’s brow furrowed. “I wouldn’t have laughed at you.”

“Yes, well…” Castiel cleared his throat. “I guess I’ll learn it another time.”

“Why not today?” Dean folded his arms. “I  _can_  show you, you know.”

Castiel raised a brow at him. “Really, Dean, that’s not—”

“I can cook, dude. Who do you think’s been helping Bobby in the kitchen on busy nights?”

When Castiel didn’t speak, but still continued to look unconvinced, Dean held up a hand. “I have one condition. You wanna learn about the pies, you gotta be in this thing from the ground up.” Dean looked at him meaningfully. “You help pick today.”

“Dean, I don’t know about that…”

Dean ignored him, and beckoned him towards a tree. “Fold up your sleeves, accountant boy. We’ve got another fifty bushels to pick before we quit today.”

It was actually somewhere between amusing and sad to see how Castiel, after some further hesitancy, worked his way over to a tree, staring up the ladder like it was a foreign thing. He began pestering Dean with questions, like,  _Is this stable? How do you know if the apple’s ripe? Is this one ripe, Dean? How do I pluck it, by pulling or…?_  And, Dean’s personal favorite: “There aren’t bees up here, are there?”

“Yeah, some. What, you allergic?”

“No, I was just… wondering.”

Dean held the ladder at its base, shaking his head at Castiel and nodding to the group of pickers who had gathered around to watch. They covered their mouths to hide their laughter, and when Castiel began to descend they scattered. He was having some trouble navigating the ladder with the basket in his hand. “It’s not that I don’t like bees, I think they’re fascinating, I just—” he judged his foot placement, “—-don’t particularly want to be stung.”

“How the hell do you think apple trees get pollinated, Cas?”

“Well, I—” He slipped, and Dean braced a hand against his leg, catching him and steading him.

“Here.” Dean reached his hands up and took the basket from Castiel, staring at his terrified face as he clung to the ladder. “It’s ok, Cas, I got you.”

Castiel paused, then confessed, “I don’t particularly like heights.”

“I’ll be sure to add that to the list, then.”

Slowly, like it was torture, Castiel made his way down and down, until his feet landed on solid ground. Dean moved to his side, noting the way Castiel’s hands still gripped the wooden ladder like it was a safety net. “You can let go now.”

“I know.” After a moment, he pried his fingers loose and took a deep breath, shaking his shoulders and head to relax. “I know.”

Dean looked at him closely, his eyes soft. He held the basket out to Cas. “Ready for the next tree?”

Castiel stared at him, taking the bushel and laughing without humor.

“Come on. It’ll get easier as you go.” He paused, adding a little gentle encouragement by looking down at the apples and selecting the ripest one. Dean pulled it from the basket and held it out to him. “Try it.”

Castiel looked at Dean, his arms wrapped around the bushel, and for a moment it looked as though he was going to eat the fruit straight out of Dean’s hand. Instead, he balanced the basket on his knee, grabbed the apple, and took a bite. His eyes popped as the juice escaped and ran down his chin; Dean suddenly felt a tenseness in his throat and a tingling at the base of his spine, and he looked away. Castiel wiped his jaw with the back of his hand. “ _Wow_.”

“Yeah: wow. So, all worth it, right?”

Castiel nodded, taking another bite. Dean watched him, then reminded himself  _not_  to watch him, and said, “We’ll bake a pie with the apples you picked today, okay?”

Castiel smiled, mouth full and chewing, and Dean prodded him forward. “Three more trees and I let you go.”

Castiel’s smile quickly dropped away, but he put up less of a fight on the second tree, and by the third tree he wasn’t shaking at all. Dean was able to step away from the ladder, watch the man venture out onto a farther branch, and pluck the ripest apple he’d seen yet.

————————————-

It was well into the evening when Castiel joined Dean at the restaurant. Dean had walked straight down from the orchard, having long since released Castiel from his duties. Castiel had been instructed to bring the basket he had picked with him, and he did so now, fumbling with the keys to the entrance and working his way in, bushel in his arms. Dean smiled up at him from where he was adjusting the radio to only play on the inside speakers. “Take it back to the sink and start washing them, I’ll be there in a sec.”

Castiel nodded, shouldering his way through the hinged metal door to the kitchen. When Dean settled on the station he wanted, he turned the volume up loud enough to be audible in the back, then followed, propping open the door to let the sound in.

He turned around, catching the sight of Castiel’s back as he busied himself in washing the apples, seeing the muscles work beneath his thin shirt. He must have changed after picking this afternoon. Dean suddenly felt his mouth go dry, like his tongue was a busy parchment, tasting words and rejecting them repeatedly. Why in God’s name was there a twisting in the middle of his stomach? Dean shook his head. He must have gotten too much sun today.

“How you comin’ with those apples? Not using soap, are you?”

He could practically feel Castiel roll his eyes. “Dean, it’s not like I’ve never cooked before.”

Dean chuckled and made his way to Castiel’s side. “Look who’s Mr. Confidence and Sass now.” He watched as Castiel sighed, looking straight ahead and pursing his lips together.

“I’ll have you know that I almost twisted my ankle on that ladder today.”

“But it was fun, wasn’t it?”

Castiel’s mouth twitched, and after a second, he turned to look at Dean. “I could get used to it. But, if you’ll remember, there was a reason I asked you to stay on and help out.”

“Because you suck at outdoor shit?”

Castiel shook his head, looking back down at the apples in his hands. “Thank you very much, Dean.”

Dean grinned wickedly, grabbing a few apples and aiding him with the second faucet. “You really did do well, man. Could use you out there more often.” He expected another witty retort, but instead Castiel stilled his motions.

“You’re right, I know you are. I just…” He shifted his shoulders. “I was not prepared for that today.”

“Do you always need 24 hours notice before big changes to your life plan or schedule?”

“If you can, please.” And Dean couldn’t tell if he was joking or not, until Castiel turned and gave him a gentle smile. “Yet another thing you can add to my list?”

Dean chuckled. “Yeah, I suppose so.”

They were silent for a moment too long, and when Dean reached over to grab another set of apples, he accidentally brushed against Castiel’s hand. He jerked back and resettled, feeling Castiel glance at him carefully. Castiel took a breath, hesitated, then asked nonchalantly, “What kinds of things do you have on this list of mine?”

“Oh, uh…” Dean paused, flustered, and irritated that he was flustered. “You know. Just. Things. Anyway, we probably have enough apples now, so, we can… stop with that.” He pushed back from the sink, gesturing at Castiel to gather them together. “You need to start peeling and chopping them, if you can do that.”

“Of course.” Castiel moved to the wooden chopping block on the counter. “Knife?”

Dean pointed, and spoke again, wondering why his voice was so loud. “Anyway, Bobby and I have a lot of pie-crusts in the freezer, cause they’re kind of a bitch to make, so we don’t have to go through all that unless you want to.”

Castiel opened his mouth to speak, and Dean very quickly interrupted. “Ok, that’s fine, we can make the crusts.”

He busied himself with getting the butter, flour, salt, and vegetable oil. He grabbed the filtered water from the fridge and poured it into a small bowl, dropping some ice cubes in it before he returned the pitcher. He was halfway through sifting the flour when Castiel’s voice stopped him. “Um, Dean?”

“Yeah?” Wow, why was he still talking that loudly?

“I know I need to chop up the apples, but I want to learn about the crust too.”

“Oh, right.” For the first time, Dean looked at Castiel’s progress. He bit his lip with a touch of guilt. “You’re… you’re chopping them too small.”

“Really?”

“Yeah, um… more like… taking out the core of an apple and serving slices? Just chop those slices in half.”

“Oh.” Castiel sighed, and he looked so defeated that Dean stepped out of himself for a moment.

“Dude, it’s cool. That’s just one apple. We’ll do the others right in a minute, ok? Now, come over here and help me sift the flour.”

“I can’t get things right today, can I?”

“Cas, it’s fine.”

“No, I mean it, though. The ladder today, the apple picking.” Castiel hesitated, before speaking quietly. “It was humbling.”

Dean looked at him, trying very hard to be as serious as Castiel was in that moment, to show that he was completely aware of how trying it must of been, and to show Castiel how grateful he really was for everything he had done. But instead, he said: “It was hilarious.”

Castiel looked at him, his eyes flashing, and without another word, he threw the flour from the sifter straight at Dean’s face.

“Son of a—” Dean said, or tried to, as he coughed out flour and scrambled his hands at his nose. Castiel was laughing, harder than Dean had ever heard him laugh, doubling over, his hands prepping for another throw. Dean wiped his eyes and took stock of him.  
“Don’t you dare…”

“What?”

Dean grinned wickedly at him. He fished his hand straight into the bag of flour at his side, and they stared each other down. In three seconds, they could have ended it. Laughed it off and continued making pies. In three seconds they could have ended the night in a normal way and gone about their business. They might never have answered the question that arose from this moment; this moment, and all the moments before. But instead, at the end of those three seconds, both men gripped flour tightly in their fists, and threw it at each other.

Dean had the advantage. He had the greater amount of flour to dispose of, and he snatched the bag quickly to his chest, grabbing handful after handful and throwing it straight at Castiel, trying to duck Castiel’s throws, which was completely pointless as it was flour and instantaneously it was in every particle of air. It clung to their hair, their jeans, their shirts, and in the manner that this was war, dusted every empty space between them. Dean advanced rapidly towards Castiel, clearly and cleanly winning, when Castiel’s bowl came up empty, and Dean victoriously grabbed Castiel’s throwing wrist, twisting it slightly as he cornered him back against the cabinets. They stared at each other, panting, grinning stupidly, and then suddenly they weren’t grinning anymore.

Dean dropped the bag of flour, and heard Castiel drop the bowl. He pinned Castiel to the counter with his hips, and dropped his mouth, hot and open, to Castiel’s.

They tasted of sweat, they tasted of flour. They were sloppy and loud, muffled moans, sighs, and whimpers escaping unheeded. Dean grabbed and pulled Castiel’s hair then changed his mind, sweeping his hands along his face, his neck. Castiel grappled with the back of Dean’s shirt, his fingers burying themselves into the flannel and pulling, up and out, around, then retreating to snake up to Dean’s cheek, cupping it and sighing into him. They twisted their heads and made every space possible for each other, falling into the gape and drowning there for what seemed like an eternity.

But eventually, Dean had to breathe—not to grab a quick breath in between his tastes, but to genuinely  _breathe_ —and when he pulled away, when their lips retreated with an audible break and they panted over each other, Dean suddenly become conscious of everything he had just done.

His eyes snapped open. He stared heavy into Castiel’s blue eyes, and he ripped himself away, dropping his hands and fingers and stepping back and back and back. He shook his head, brought his hand to his mouth. His heart was pumping the blood furiously through his ears; he barely heard Castiel speak, open his mouth and say his name, pleading. “ _Dean_ …”

But Dean didn’t hear anything else. He ran through the door and disappeared into his car.


	7. Push

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Fantasy and reality.

Dean drove. Dean drove, and drove, and drove. The headlamps burned holes in the night, and it was mere fortune itself that no deer, no skunk, no wild animal thought to make its way across Dean’s path; he wouldn’t have been able to stop. The lines of trees whirred past him in a blur, and Dean’s heart pounded within him, almost arrhythmic, buzzing the blood through his veins and bypassing his head.

“ _FUCK_!” He screamed, his voice hoarse and dark. He slammed the car over to the shoulder of the road, put it into park, and turned it off. He shoved his head into his hands, digging his fingers into his temples and burying them there. “ _Fuck_ ,” he said again, muffled into his palms.

He tasted flour residue there, and for the first time he realized that, not only was he still covered in flour, but now his car was as well.

He threw the door open and stepped out, viciously tearing his jacket from his chest and  beating it until a cloud appeared around him. He patted down his thighs and legs, so roughly he must have been bruising himself, but he barely noticed. Ducking back into the cab, he fished under the seat until he found an old water-bottle he had stashed there in case of an emergency. He opened it and poured it over his head, his face, his hands and arms. The rush of cold, and the way the wind clung to the wet, was the first thing that stilled him, the first thing that allowed him to breathe, to shudder, and then to breathe again.

_What had he done_?

He leaned against the open door of the car, folding his arms and tucking his head there, squeezing his eyes shut. Sweet Jesus, he could still feel him. Still feel the way Cas folded against him, the stubble of Cas’s chin against his own, Cas’s tongue, cool and slick, penetrating his lips. Fuck, the way he sounded, those stupid, little sounds…

“Fuck…” Dean groaned, grimacing into his arms and clenching his hands shut.

Dean’s heart was pounding. A rational part in his mind was trying to calm him, trying to sort out the events and give them a home and a name, a  _reason_. Surely there must be a reason for this—heat stroke, exhaustion… maybe Castiel was drunk? Maybe, somehow, Dean was drunk. Maybe everyone was drunk and maybe this was all a dream and he was going to wake up.

But Cas was too real. The lead up to that moment was too real. And the memory, the memory burning inside him now, was too real.

Fuck, he wanted Cas. Dean wanted Castiel to the point where his hands were shaking and his stomach was aching in nausea and fear. How the hell could he not know that he wanted him? How long had this been going on?

Dean peeled his arms off the roof of the car, picking up his jacket slowly from where he had dropped it on the road, and slid into the seat. Dean had never, in any moment of his life, understood himself to be, on any level, attracted to a man. At least, he had never dated a man. And he certainly hadn’t seriously entertained sexual thoughts about said man, or any man. As was happening right now.

Because while a part of his mind had been trying to explain away just why this had happened, the other part of his mind was tapped into awareness, and was sifting through his memories with Castiel, and implanting them into an enormous, vivid fantasy. In his mind he was suddenly halfway through lifting Castiel up onto that cabinet and fucking him raw.

Dean groaned in frustration, leaning his head back as he tried to escape the thoughts, but they were detailed and bright, because Dean knew exactly how it felt touching him. Dean knew what it felt like to have another man grow hard against him, to subtly rub their hips together and moan into each other.

Fuck. He was hard now.

And so Dean, on the dark road, zipped down his trousers, unfolded his cock from where it bloomed beneath his boxers, and let it breathe. He circled his fingers around himself and gripped tight.

He let out a low, heady breath. Fuck, was he really going to do this? Was he really going to jerk himself off to the idea of a dude, to the idea of Cas? But his body had already decided for him:  _yes_.

He pulled his hand up, feeling the muscles tense in his neck, and he leaned his head back, remembering Castiel’s erection against his own, feeling how Castiel had kissed him. He reheard the sounds of him, the sounds of  _them_. He didn’t let his fingers tease for one moment; he was merciless against himself, twisting and pulling, harder and faster, quick and dirty, letting his eyes flutter shut and his jaw fall open, picturing himself and Cas, picturing Cas on that stupid ladder, Dean shoving him up against a tree and fucking him; biting down on Castiel’s nipple and hear him whimper in response; whipping Castiel’s dick from where it hid in his jeans, in his suit pants, and Dean blew him on the stairs. Dean had no fucking clue how to give a blow job but he wanted to, and in his mind he had Castiel reeling. And then Castiel took Dean in his mouth, and imagining Cas returning the favor sent Dean tumbling over the edge. He barely brought his other hand up in time to catch himself as he exploded up and out, dripping over his fingers like some teenager caught by surprise. He grunted, deep in the back of his throat, rubbing himself tenderly as he softened. He dropped his head back on the seat.

Jesus, he just did that.

_Jesus_.

Because even though Dean was now limp in his hand, he still thought the image of Cas was fucking hot; seeing Castiel’s lips stretch over and around him, the idea of bending Castiel over—fuck, Dean could bend him over and  _take_  him—the idea of kissing Cas. Dean had kissed Cas, and Cas had kissed him back, and their friendship was fucking over because what the hell were they now?

It was always leading to this. It was always leading to this and Dean had had no idea. Not that he had a clue now.

When he had caught his breath, he gingerly leaned over to the glove compartment and grabbed out napkins he had stored there. He kept them there as kleenex, or in case a fast food company neglected to give him any—he hardly anticipated needing them for this. As he wiped himself down and cleaned his jeans, he looked at the company name on the paper: Burger King. He’d bought Burger King for he and Cas weeks ago and now here it was. Flour, cum, and napkins. Castiel was everywhere, and the proof of it was now littering Dean’s car.

Dean’s hands were shaking as he cleaned the last visible proof from himself and from the Impala, curled up the napkin, tossed it into the trash bag, then turned his hands to the steering wheel and sat there, motionless.

What did he do now?

There was some sort of red hot guilt burning his ears, and Dean couldn’t tell if it was because he had masturbated, masturbated about Castiel, or done so without Castiel being aware or knowing. Oh fuck, Cas had to know by now. Castiel had to know how Dean felt, because Dean knew how Cas felt. Castiel was turned on—they were kissing  _each other_.

Unless Castiel had just been caught off guard. Unless Dean was making this all up in his head.

The flame of guilt sputtered quickly into embarrassment, and Dean turned the key in the ignition, half ready to run like hell back down the hill and pretend that this had never happened, to walk up to Cas tomorrow during business hours and grin—not even  _mention_ what had happened—just completely ignore it.

Ignore what he wanted.

Jesus,  _what did he want?_

But the question wasn’t causing nearly as much angst as Dean thought it would, or thought it should. Because truthfully, Dean wasn’t sitting in his car right now. He was still in the kitchen, Castiel pinned against him and sighing beautifully into his mouth.

He wanted to catch that mouth again.

The car kicked into drive, and Dean spun the wheel around as he climbed back up the hill.

——————————-

The store was dark as he drove past it—Dean peered at the windows anxiously in case Castiel hadn’t gone back up. But Castiel’s car was missing from it’s usual spot and there were no other signs of life, so Dean drove up the path to the house, his stomach twisting painfully in his gut. He wasn’t thinking anything but a color and a sound, and a need. He had such a need, and he had to get it. He had to get to Castiel and kiss him and tell him something, tell him who knows what. He needed to fuck Cas, if he could. If Castiel would let him. If Cas kissed him back, would he let him? Shit, had Cas jerked off too when Dean had left?

Dean needed to see him.

The light was on in the living room. Dean couldn’t see anything past the blinds, but the light was  _on_  in the living room. And he knew his car was audible as shit, so it was like a goddamn circus announcing its presence to a town in the silence of the night. But as he got out of the car, Castiel’s shadow didn’t appear through the paneled glass at the door. Dean fumbled with his keys, shoving them angrily into his pocket with a shaking hand. He almost tripped on the steps, and he was loud walking across the porch boards, loud as he raised his hand and knocked.

For a few seconds there was nothing.

Dean raised his hand to knock again when the hallway light turned on, and Dean saw Castiel’s outline appear. Slowly, with fucking  _agonizing_  slowness, Castiel approached the door. His hand gripped the knob; then turned it slowly; and Dean was looking at Cas.

And he had no idea what to say.

A smarter person might have rehearsed this; a smarter person, or a person less invested in the man before him, might have done that. But Dean was completely at a loss for words, and Castiel’s face was almost unreadable. His eyes were dark and intense and wide, and his jaw was set. He was clearly waiting to see what Dean would say, if Dean would say anything at all.

Okay he really needed to say something now.

“I…” Dean stopped. His voice sounded strange in his throat. He started again, his tongue fumbling over the words so that he sounded drunk. “I think I want you?”

Castiel’s head inclined back, ever so slightly. He blinked at Dean, and continued to say nothing. So Dean spoke again, forcing himself to be audible.

“I think I want you bad.”

Cas dropped his hand from the door, pushing it open so forcefully that it bounced off the wall near it. There was a clear hesitation on his face, but then suddenly, and without a word, he reached out, fisted his hands into Dean’s shirt, and pulled their mouths together.

Oh fuck yes.  _Fuck_  yes. His head was singing all kinds of stupid things, wires firing and misfiring because yes, fucking yes, this was right. This was what he wanted. He needed Cas’s lips against his own, Cas’s tongue, Cas’s mother-fucking  _tongue_ , flicking and dipping, teasing him as they backed into the house, Cas shutting the door behind him and shoving Dean into the half-wall separating them from the living room. Their bodies pressed together, and Dean issued a grunt, his mouth searching for Castiel’s in the small second it had separated to speak.

“You want me?” Castiel asked, his voice dark. There was something else behind it but Dean couldn’t understand it or even think to decode it in this moment. He felt himself nodding dumbly, his eyes shut and his lips parted.

“Uh huh.”

“Oh God, Dean…” Cas returned his mouth, and about fucking time too. Dean pulled him closer, making it his personal goal that Castiel never got that far away again. He let his hands wander the back of Castiel’s head, the back of his neck, his shoulders—Castiel was built and it had never mattered before but now Dean clung to those shoulders like they were his only support. He clawed at the thin shirt standing between him and Cas’s skin. Castiel groaned and pulled his head back, “Dean, I need to…”

But Cas’s mouth was too far away again and so Dean pulled his head back to his, opening his jaw and pressing his tongue as deeply as he could, then out again and in more gently, and Cas moaned around it. Castiel’s fingers worked themselves into Dean’s hair, and he yanked Dean’s head away gently, their mouths parting with an obscene sound that made Dean shudder. Cas spoke, breathless, just against Dean’s mouth. “Dean, I need you to…”

But Dean retaliated, and, mindless of everything except the sudden space between them, he slid his hands down to Castiel’s ass, gripped it tightly, and pulled him in. Dean was hard again, and so was Cas.

Castiel groaned and bit his lip, his head falling forward into Dean’s shoulder, and, hesitating only a moment, Dean rocked his hips forward and back.

Cas’s lips parted in a heady gasp, and Dean, grunting at the response, kept going. Castiel moved his hands up Dean’s neck and shoulder, wrapping around them and clinging to them, his fingers shaking. Dean rutted against him a few more times, shuddering at the feeling, so completely overwhelmed that he almost missed the change in Castiel’s emotion: the sudden switch from hesitancy into determination, and so it took him quite by surprise when Cas’s grip became vice-like, and Dean found himself being ripped away from the wall and walked backwards into the living room.

The look in Castiel’s eye was fire, and Dean barely had time to process it before Castiel pushed Dean down onto the couch and straddled him, returning their lips and whispering “Ok, ok, ok” under his breath with each pass of his tongue. He buried his mouth against Dean, then pulled away and nipped at his neck, his teeth merciless and teasing, pulling sounds from Dean he was only half-aware he was making.

“God, Cas…”

Castiel widened his legs, sliding further down on Dean’s lap, and Dean did his best to counter-adjust, shifting his hips down until they locked together.

Dean sighed at the tease of contact again, hating his jeans and hating everything except the burn that was Castiel’s touch as Cas bent over him, lifting Dean’s shirt and biting and sucking hard on Dean’s nipples, sliding his hands up and down Dean’s spine, returning to kiss and bite Dean’s lips until they swelled with the action. And when Castiel was upright again, he arched his back to meld their chests together, his hips maneuvering until he slid himself slowly up and down Dean’s erection. Dean exhaled, sharply, his hands around Castiel’s waist, digging his fingers beneath Cas’s waistband and puckering the skin there. “Fuck, Cas… fuck.”

Castiel answered the need. He pried a hand between them and pulled their zippers down, and through the fabric, rubbed his fingers up and down Dean’s cock.

And it was then that Dean had a sudden revelation: Cas had done this before. Castiel knew what he was fucking doing and Dean was completely out of his depth. This sudden burst of clarity brought forth every question he hadn’t asked:  _have you been tested?, when was I last tested?, shit, when was I last tested?, what am I doing?, how do we do this? How the fuck do I fuck you, Cas?_

But all those questions slipped from his mind, when Cas pulled the head of Dean’s dick out from the boxers and thumbed it gently, circling its tip and leaning in to kiss Dean’s lips.

And then they were moving again, and Dean was aware that Cas now held both his dick in his hand and his own, and Cas widened his legs further and pressed them together, their hips rolling in time.

Fuck, it felt amazing. Cas was doing something with his fingers and it felt amazing, and Cas’s dick was hard and pulsing against his own, and  _that_  felt amazing. And his hips were moving and he was kissing Cas, biting his ear and kissing him, and he felt like he was saying things that made sense but he knew he wasn’t, and he wanted more control but couldn’t fathom what to do, he just let his hips move and Cas’s hips move, and listened to the sound of Castiel’s breathing, when it happened.

He was close to coming—close to being close to coming, but everything was so new that he hardly understood his own body—when Castiel stopped moving. His hands stopped their twisting and fingering, and his body stilled completely. He thought Castiel had come, and then he realized that the space between them was empty. It took Dean a moment and then he registered it: Cas had gone soft.

Castiel’s mouth was buried in the crook of Dean’s shoulder; he was still breathing heavily, and he was still unmoving. Dean did not know what to do. He didn’t know what to do or what to say, if he should say anything at all. A part of him still thought that Castiel had, in fact, come, and this was just how Cas did it; what the fuck did Dean know, he’d never slept with a guy.

But the look on Castiel’s face was enough; Dean caught his eyes as he pulled away and saw the immense flush of shame, regret, humiliation and upset cross his face, and then they both looked away. In two seconds Castiel had removed himself from Dean’s lap, zipping up his jeans and rotating around to sit on the edge of the couch. He sat forward, resting his elbows on his knees, burying his face in his hands. Dean looked down at his own dick, half-hard and folded back over onto his stomach. He quickly tucked it away, ignoring its vote of protest as he too zipped up. He stared at Castiel.

Castiel wasn’t moving. It didn’t even look like he was breathing. He just sat there, fingers pressed into his eyes, and didn’t say a word.

Dean opened his mouth. Was he supposed to speak? What the hell would he even say? He had a feeling in the pit of his stomach that this was so much more than he had ever prepared himself for, but he couldn’t even deal with that. He just watched Castiel and waited for some kind of signal, some kind of clue that everything was ok, and that Dean and he could laugh about this now. Was this funny?  _Could_  this be funny? He waited, and watched, and then Castiel’s shoulders moved as he took a deep breath.

“I think you should go.”

Dean didn’t move. He simply stared at Castiel, trying for some kind of eye contact, anything at all, but he received nothing. Castiel spoke again, his voice almost unbearable to hear.

“ _Leave_.”

Dean stood up roughly, fumbling at his pocket as he mindlessly checked for his keys. He looked down at Castiel, opened his mouth, and, speaking from a place of helplessness, said, “Cas, I…”

“Dean,  _please_. Go.”

So he did.


	8. Sunset

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Too much and not enough.

Dean welcomed the next morning as he sat up groggily, the springs from his mattress having dug into his back yet another night. He was almost envious of Sam’s nest on the couch, knowing that, although it sunk in the middle and had no support, it was more comfortable than the place Dean had slept for months now. The sun shone through the slates in the blinds, and Dean rubbed his eyes. For a few minutes, he dwelled on his physical discomfort, twisting his back to pop it and breathing deeply. For a few minutes, he stretched his mouth wide in a yawn and flexed his hands and fingers. For a few minutes, he remembered nothing. And then, of course, he remembered everything. And he sank back down into the ungiving mattress and tried to close his eyes. Tried to go back to sleep. Tried to ignore. And when that didn’t work, he finally slunk himself upright and into the shower, turned it up to the highest heat, and stood beneath the beating beads, hoping for clarity and receiving none.

He wished he had something to do today. Anything. Dean had given his orchard workers today and Wednesday off, since they’d been harvesting so much and they were well ahead of schedule. They had been working hard and to great success, they deserved the break. But now Dean was absent of a task and, for the first time, he was reluctant to go to the restaurant for work. It struck Dean that his whole existence was tied up so neatly with the orchard that finding something else to do outside of it seemed impossible. The need had not really arisen before. A few dive bars or lounges with his brother or Bobby were an exception; Dean did not really go out that much. He was so focused on the land. It was the reason he had moved back here in the first place.

Sam, he thought. Sam would be working today. And Dean was determined to help him. Because if he didn’t do something today, didn’t occupy himself somehow, he didn’t know where he would end up. And he would keep reliving the events of last night until he had to show up to the restaurant for work by five. And then Castiel would be there. Probably. Or maybe he would call in sick, if a restaurant owner could even do that. Or maybe Dean could call in sick.

Maybe he was going to be sick right now.

He stepped out of the shower and dried himself off, shaking away the nausea. With a towel wrapped around his waist, he stepped out into his living room to see that Sam had already left for work. He fished his phone from where it lay, charging, and he looked at it for the first time that morning. There was an odd tug at the back of his heart when he saw that the screen was blank; Castiel hadn’t texted or called him.

Of course he hadn’t. What would he say? What would either of them say, if and when they saw each other today at work? The nightmare scenario he had imagined last night, their denial of any sexual event, now seemed the only reality. What the hell else was he supposed to do?

As he dressed himself, Sam texted back, saying Dean was welcome to join him, and that he was at  _Harvelle and Sons_  today. Dean was grateful. Someplace new. Thank God.

It wasn’t that he hadn’t met the Harvelles before—but with the short exception of the contract signing in early July, it had been years since he had really seen them, years longer since little Jo was a kid in middle school and had looked up at him with big, flirty eyes. Dean remembered hearing from his dad that Mr. Harvelle had passed away some years back from a sudden heart attack. His wife Ellen, also a lawyer, had taken over the business for him. It was a great irony that Mr. Harvelle had never had any sons, no one to take his namesake, like he had his father, and his father before him. But Ellen Harvelle was a tough, brilliant woman, who wasn’t going to let something that contrived stand in her way. By herself she kept  _Harvelle and Sons_ running, and when her daughter graduated college and delved into law school, the name seemed here to stay, regardless of the gender possessing it.

It was good to see Ellen. Good to shake her hand, and to see Jo again, who was home from college and looking prettier than ever. It was good to talk to them about something, anything, that had nothing to do with his own life. It was good to make Jo laugh. And it was good to sit down in a chair next to Sam and realize that Sam wasn’t just working on solving their mother’s murder—the Harvelles were employing him as their cleric, giving him research to do for their various suits and cases. In fact, Dean and Sam only spent about an hour total talking about their mother’s murder.

No progress had been made, but Sam had made his way to connecting the dots of the various cases. He was proving that the crimes were 100 percent, positively committed by the same person. This conclusion seemed so tedious to Dean—he had thought they already knew that. But, as Sam explained, it hadn’t been  _proved_. Now, with the evidence he had collected, if they were present this to a judge, the person who committed the crime could be effectively charged and convicted of all four murders. This meant almost nothing to Dean, because there was still no one to accuse. So he tried his best to acknowledge Sam’s success and bite his tongue. Still, it was enough of a distraction to keep Dean’s mind occupied until 4:30, when Dean had to leave.

And then he felt nauseous all over again as he drove up the rural hillside, ignoring as he passed it, the spot where he had pulled over last night to seek some relief, the place he had started all of this. No, not started—continued. The place that they  _had_  started was steadily nearing.

In a few short minutes, Dean was walking into the store, seeing the table where he and Castiel had first met. He walked by it to the kitchen, and discovered that the mess they had made last night had already been cleared away. It hit Dean with a vicious clarity that Castiel must have cleaned up after Dean had run away. Of course Castiel had cleaned, he thought, that made perfect sense. In his mind’s eye Dean could see Castiel, standing suddenly alone, gathering himself enough to find a mop and a broom. He wouldn’t have left the place in shambles.

Dean’s heart was covered in guilt; he was sick of feeling.

When Bobby arrived at the kitchen a few moments after Dean, he immediately put himself and Dean to work. After prepping the oven, helping Bobby in heating and mixing the soups, and whipping up the biscuits, Bobby turned to him. “Where are the apples from yesterday?”

“Oh. Fuck.” Cold realization stunned Dean into the present. Every day during harvest season, Dean wanted to have bushels out for sale in the parking lot and behind the counter. It was his job to bring everything down on Tuesday afternoons and help set it up. Today, he had completely forgotten.

Bobby shook his head. “Dean, we ain’t got much time before we open. Go and get them.”

Dean hesitated. He knew exactly where they were. And he didn’t really want to go there. “Well, I mean, we could put them out Wednesday, why does it have to be today?”

Bobby scrutinized him deeply for a moment. “Are you really asking me that question?” When Dean did not respond, he said, “Just go get the apples.”

If Dean could physically drag his feet more than he was already doing, he would have. He made his way slowly through the front of the restaurant, looking for anything,  _something_  that needed his attention. But the people Castiel had hired were doing a damn fine job, and everything looked put together. And then friggin’ Dana came up to him and asked where the bushels were to sell, so Dean finally rolled his eyes and walked away. “They’re coming, okay?”

He made his way out to his Impala, and drove at about five miles an hour up the road to Castiel’s house. Halfway through this he realized he was being stupid, so he started over-compensating by traveling too fast, then slowing down again. In the end, as the house came into view through the trees, Dean had managed to convince himself that all his panic didn’t matter anyway, because Castiel was probably out, not even at the house, and that it would be simple to take the tractor and the trailer down to the store and back again. Castiel wouldn’t even know Dean had been anywhere near to the vicinity of his home.

And, in fact, for awhile, things went almost completely according to Dean’s plan. When he pulled up to the house, and used his garage door opener to access the tractor and the already pre-loaded trailer, he saw that Castiel’s car was missing from its dock. Excellent. He backed up the tractor to the trailer, hitched them, and proceeded to make his way down the hill, tumbling along pleasantly in second gear. He was thinking to himself, as he made his way along, that he might be able to go this whole day without seeing Castiel at all, if he hung out in the kitchen and maybe went home a touch early.

But then Dean saw a cloud of gravel dust form down the road just ahead, and that silenced his thoughts straight away. Grimacing, and mumbling nothing in particular, he pulled the tractor over to the right and waited, as Castiel’s car could be seen approaching him on the left.

Dean felt incredibly awkward sitting high up in this stupid tractor, in this stupid exposed cab, and couldn’t figure out just where the hell he was supposed to look—was he supposed to nod at Cas, wave to him? Should he pretend that he had no idea Castiel approaching, and be very busy with something on the dashboard, maybe a dial or a switch? Or maybe Dean could jump off the seat and run and hide in the trees. That seemed like the best option until it was too late; Castiel was there, at his side,  _rolling the window down to talk_.

“Dean?” The brakes creaked to a halt as Castiel peered up.

Dean hesitated, meeting his eyes and trying very hard to see the Castiel of the present and not the Castiel from last night. “Yeah?”

“Taking down the apples?”

Well that seemed fairly obvious. Dean clicked his jaw together. “Yeah?”

Castiel paused. “When you come back, maybe we could talk?”

Oh sure. Oh that would be just great. Dean could not express in words just how little he wanted to say okay to that, how little he wanted to even be having this conversation. So instead, he nodded, Castiel slowly rolled his window up, and they continued on their separate ways, Dean feeling more and more upset and anxious each yard he traveled. He was barely conscious of what he was doing as he detached the trailer in the parking lot, helped moved some of baskets inside, and helped stack the others outside to look nice and appealing. Handing over the  _APPLES FOR SALE_  sign to Dana, and regretfully admitting that there was nothing else to do, he swung himself back up onto the tractor seat and made his return journey to the house.

He took his time in parking, backing it in  _just so_  inside the garage, before he slowly made his way around the house, where he discovered Castiel waiting for him on the front porch swing.

“Hello, Dean.”

Dean sidled up the steps, folding his hands into his pockets. Castiel budged over on the swing and gestured for Dean to sit down. After hesitating for a moment, scratching the back of his head to buy time, Dean sat, the electricity crackling between them when their thighs brushed together.

“I…” Castiel spoke, reaching to his side. “I wanted to give you something…” He held out to Dean a grouping of green pipe-cleaners. They were twisted around to look like vines and leaves, but instead of holding flowers, they were individually wrapped around six hot-wheels cars. Dean took it from him, staring at it, as Castiel spoke. “I wanted to give you flowers but I didn’t want you to feel, well, strange about it. And I know you like cars, so…”

Dean blinked down at the bouquet, because that was exactly what it was. Castiel had given him a bouquet of cars, and not just any hot-wheels, but older models. Models like the one he drove. “You made this?” he asked quietly.

Castiel nodded. “Yeah…”

Dean opened his mouth, drawing his eyes up to Castiel and searching for his, unsure of what to say. “Thank you,” he finally settled on, although it didn’t feel like the right thing nor that it was nearly enough.

Castiel met his gaze and nodded slowly, and then grew quiet. Dean listened to the silence around him as daylight fell, and the evening sun began to set behind the house. He twiddled with the pipe cleaners in his fingers, amazed at how detailed the leaves looked and wondering just how long this had taken to make, when Castiel finally spoke.

“There are some things I should probably tell you, Dean.” Dean looked at him, and they locked eyes. He didn’t speak, he just listened, watching the rise and fall of Castiel’s shoulders as he confessed softly, “I’m just not sure where to begin.”

Silence fell once more, and Dean felt his heart rise up in his chest as the urge to prompt Castiel grew into action. He spoke very quietly. “Do you like me?”

Castiel laughed suddenly, his head falling to his chest and his hands gripping the porch swing beneath them. He kicked his feet slightly, jarring them into a gentle motion, and his voice was very shy. “Yes.”

Dean nodded. “Ok…”

“Dean—” Castiel interrupted, very serious. “Last night had nothing to do with you. Well,” he blushed, hiding his gaze once again. “I mean, obviously it had  _something_  to do with you, the good parts. But what happened, I mean, the  _thing_  that…” He couldn’t say it, and Dean wasn’t going to make him. He just nodded his head to acknowledge that he understood, so Castiel continued, “That didn’t have to do with you.”

Dean’s heart was pounding. He felt at once relieved and, somehow, more upset than before, though he couldn’t understand exactly why. “What was it, then?”

Castiel sighed. He leaned back in the swing and folded his arms over his chest. “My… it’s my life: my past. My…” He hesitated. “My father.”

Dean pressed his tongue tightly to the roof of his mouth. He stared at Castiel, and waited.

“I’m adopted. Adopted son, and never made to forget it.” He paused. “I don’t know why or how any of this happened. My mother, my  _adopted_  mother, wanted a child, so she adopted me, and then she died of cancer when I was three years old. I don’t remember her at all.”

Castiel paused, then shifted his weight on the swing. Dean felt a cool breeze creep up behind them and settle into his bones. He shuddered and pulled his jacket tighter, clutching the bouquet in his hands. Castiel continued.

“My father raised me. Rather,” he laughed humorlessly. “He put up with me.

“Maybe it was because I was unwanted, maybe it’s because he somehow blamed me for my mother’s death, but basically, he drank and I became… It was easy, I guess. For him to hit me. Easy to come back for more.

“He knew where to hit, too. Knew how to… he would hit me in places that were hidden so my teachers and friends never knew. In gym class I would change in the showers, or after everyone had already left. I was almost always late for class.”

Castiel paused, and again, he shifted. His breathing was shallow and quick, and Dean saw that his hands were shaking. A part of him wanted to reach out and grab those hands, but he held back.

“It was my girl-friend, in high school, Anna. She—when we would… she noticed. And she was scared. And when I told her, I begged her not to tell.” He stopped himself. “She encouraged me to stand up for myself.”

“You hadn’t before?”

Castiel shook his head angrily. “Dean, please, it’s… it’s not that simple. My father owned me—I was nothing, I meant nothing. Why fight back for that?

“Eventually, I listened to her, and I started working out, building my strength up. I tried out believing in myself for awhile, and that was a pretty new feeling. I thought she was going to save me. But time went on, and I never fought back, and she gave me an ultimatum: go to the police, or she would.

“So I lied. I said  _I_ told them. Which worked out well, because we were moving soon anyway.” Castiel paused. “In a weird way, Dean, things were getting better at home. He didn’t beat me as often, and when he did he would talk about his regret. How he wanted things to get better. I mean, he always did that and I hadn’t always believed him, but this time I did. I don’t know why. I think I was desperate. I think—I don’t know—I just  _needed_  to.

“College was when things changed. I met someone who really believed in me, and I…” he rolled his eyes as he repeated the word, “ _Believed_  in his believing in me… I had started seeing someone, a guy…” He glanced self-consciously at Dean. “Balthazar, but everyone called him Bart. We bonded over our names being, well, a bit unusual.” He paused, staring down at his fists as he clenched them. “He loved me so much.

“I told my father. I told him everything, and I don’t know what I was thinking, but when he turned his fists to Bart… That was when I started fighting back.”

Castiel hesitated. “I… I thought everything was resolved. That life would get better then. But Bart was more scared than he had ever openly admitted to me, and so when I first started losing…” Castiel bobbed his head gently, “When I first started to experience impotency, I think it may have just proved too much for him.” Castiel sighed, shutting his eyes tightly for a moment. “He was a pretty sexual guy. He lost patience with me, lost faith in me. We lost each other. Everything fell apart and I… I still feel like I’m picking up the pieces.

“So now,” Castiel took a deep breath, shuddering as he returned his gaze to Dean. “Now I tell you this. My father settled with me and Bart individually—settled by paying us out in bribes so that we wouldn’t press charges on him. The money was absurd Dean. Think less of me if you will for my taking it, but it’s where all my money comes from. It’s because of that money that I could finally run. Because I couldn’t escape from him in California. But, for a little while here, and for awhile last night, I felt like I finally had. It was the first time I had experienced an… in  _years_ , Dean. You made me feel like I was finally normal.

“Dean, I’m sorry. I should have told you this a long time ago. I should have told you why I came to Vermont. I should have told you how messed up I am. I should have told you when I…” He hesitated. “When I first started feeling things for you. But I’ve told you now.

“Dean,” He looked up at him, sincere. “I’ll be honest with you, I… I think about you so much. Almost all the time, really, and… if this is too much for you, you need to tell me. You’ve got your own things you’re dealing with and I just…

“We’ve got this business to run together. We’ve got our own lives to get on track. Dean, you’re not obligated to do anything with me. We had last night, and that was…  _almost_ perfect,” he gave a wry smile. “But if that’s all you wanted from me, then you know now, I can’t give it to you.” His smile grew painful. “I wish that I could.”

And then he was done speaking, and Dean realized, slowly, that the conversation was his now. That he was supposed to say something. Instead, he exhaled softly and shifted in his seat, looking down at the model cars in his hand and running his fingers along the length of the pipe-cleaners, distracting himself with their texture. Finally, he spoke. “ _Wow_.”

Castiel’s lips quirked up to the side. “It’s a lot.”

“Yeah. And you made me a car bouquet, too.” Dean laughed loudly, and he kicked himself mentally. What the fuck was he saying.

“Dean…” Cas started, but Dean interrupted him.

“I mean, I thought my dad was awful, but…”

“Dean, it’s ok.”

He felt like his hands were shaking and he didn’t know why, and he was angry that Castiel was trying to comfort him when clearly Castiel had the shittier life to deal with. Dean shook his head. “It’s really not ok, Cas.”

“I know, Dean, but it  _is_. You can…” He paused, and shifted so that he could look at Dean square in the face. “You’re not obligated.”

“You’ve said that.”

“Ok, so… it’s ok. You’re not going to break me if you don’t want this.”

Dean squeezed his eyes shut, feeling something massive well up behind them and try to claw its way out. His throat was closing up. “Cas, I don’t know what I want right now.”

“Dean…” Castiel said again, so softly and so gently that Dean opened his eyes and looked at the man next to him. Castiel reached a hand out and placed it on Dean’s arm. “It’s  _ok_.”

Dean took a shuddering breath, and suddenly he and Castiel wrapped their arms around each other and hugged close. Dean buried his nose against Castiel’s shoulder and squeezed him tightly. “Jesus Christ, Cas, I’m so sorry.”

“It’s ok.”

“I’m so sorry that I can’t—”

“Dean, it’s fine.”

Dean shook his head. “Last night wasn’t just about sex, ok?”

Castiel laughed gently against Dean’s shoulder. “That’s good to know.”

“I just can’t… and you made this fucking  _car_  bouquet—”

“If you’re gonna keep making a big deal out of that thing, Dean, I’m taking it back.” They pulled away from each other, keeping their hands on each other’s shoulders. Dean looked at him, sincerely. “I just have to figure things out, ok?”

“Dean, it’s fine. I don’t expect anything from you.”

“But, Cas—” Dean pulled a hand up to Castiel’s face, cupping his cheek. “I am your friend, ok? I’m always your friend, and if you need to talk or something—”

“I know.”

“No, I mean it. I…” Dean paused, and he realized that, in his whole life, he had never felt more torn than in this moment. To run away, or to lean in and kiss him. It was the tear that he clung to, the indecision. His heart hurt, and he reaffirmed his fingers against Castiel’s cheek. “I am so sorry about your father.”

Castiel nodded, and it was clear that he couldn’t speak. He pulled his hand up to Dean’s and laced their fingers together momentarily, pressing his face into Dean’s palm and shutting his eyes. Dean took a deep breath, shuddering, and then Castiel let go. They sat on the swing and looked at each other. Dean hesitated, then spoke quietly. “I should probably get down to the store…”

Castiel nodded. “I suppose me as well. Need to change into something… more presentable.”

“I’m pretty sure you have some suits lying around.” Dean tried to joke, and Castiel tried to laugh, but they were still too raw. For another moment, they simply sat together, neither realizing how much the light had faded. Finally, Dean stood. “Well, I guess I’m gonna…”

“Yeah.”

Dean stopped at the end of the porch. “Thank you for telling me.”

“Thank you for listening.”

They didn’t speak to each other for a week.


	9. I and Love and You

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The future from the past.

Eventually, Dean and Castiel spoke. As Castiel had pointed out, they did, in fact, run a business together. Conversation bloomed simply out of necessity. Dean would have to talk to Castiel about the harvest, how the individual sales were going, how the whole market was doing, what the purchasing rate was, and, of course, how much longer they had left in harvest time. The season was wrapping up. Almost a month after Dean and Castiel had sat on the porch swing and pretended everything was alright, the only apples left to pick were the slow growers. Dean only worked with his pickers Monday through Thursday now, and with less and less success. Bobby was running hay-rides by request on Saturdays, and Dean figured that within the next few weeks, harvest would be over and the autumn chill would be well settled into the air. 

The idea of the slowdown was more than welcome to Dean. He felt like his conversations with Castiel, even at work in or around the restaurant, were completely haunted by the things he had learned, the things they had said, and that night they had shared together. Dean always felt slightly sick when they spoke. He would work his jaw into a grin, and he felt like it sat there, completely spoiled across his face while his eyes died above it.

Castiel, on the other hand, always seemed composed. He seemed effortless, normal even. Dean couldn’t fathom him, he couldn’t begin to read him. Was Castiel not bothered by what had passed between them? Or was he simply very good at hiding turmoil? Was it possible that Castiel was used to this sort of fall out after he revealed the truth of his life? Dean thought about that for awhile and felt so, so guilty for even thinking it.

He couldn’t change how uncomfortable he felt, and as time continued on he grew more and more upset. He didn’t understand half of what his body or heart or even his mind was telling him; it was so disconcerting that it served to make Dean less and less affable and more and more distant. So as the harvest began it’s eventual wrap up, the need to see or even speak to Castiel would fade, and Dean felt like that was the only chance he would get for a lasting, personal peace. He was craving peace and solitude more than he could say. And the need for it was driving him to madness again—the madness of running. 

He felt it every time he would turn on the Impala. Her rumble and roar was just aching for a drive. A long, pointless, endless drive that took Dean God knows where; that took Dean _away_. Yes, he had Bobby again. And yes, he had Sam again. But both of them still seemed so detached from his life somehow, so invested in their own shit. Bobby and Jody seemed to be getting serious, and Sam was either always at work or always working. Dean wanted to get away, he wanted to be involved; but neither of those things seemed to be happening or about to happen. But at least if he ran away from here, he could not-fit-in in a place where it didn’t matter that he didn’t matter.

Sam and Dean sat across from each other at the small kitchen table, early on a Sunday morning in mid-October. Sam was reading the paper, eating a croissant he had picked up on his morning walk, and Dean was sipping his coffee, sinking deep into mental daydreams of roadmaps. 

“Got plans for your day off?” Sam asked, swallowing a mouthful of croissant and looking up.

“No.” Dean pulled his mind from a long stretch of highway he’d driven in Texas almost five years ago now, so lonely and isolated. So free. “Why do you ask?”

Sam hesitated. “I was kinda hoping you could come with me today.”

“Where’s that?”

Sam leaned back in his seat, folding the paper and eating the last bite of his breakfast. “Well, you know I’ve been talking to Bobby and Jody, getting some help from some of the detectives on the force….”

“Yeah?”

“We worked out this Sunday as a meeting time. Castiel okayed it, so around noon today I’ll be heading up to his house, and we’ll be getting started on reconstruction.”

“Reconstruction?”

Sam looked at him. “Of mom’s murder.”

“Oh.” That hit him like a ton of bricks. “What are you… what do you want me there for?”

Sam smiled kindly. “I happen to think you might be useful.”

“What, cause I’m a  _witness_?” That had come out much harsher than Dean had intended, so he resettled himself and hoped that Sam would let it slide, which after a moment, he did.

“No, Dean. I value your opinion, and I think you’d be really helpful. You’re better at this kind of stuff than you think you are.”

Dean shook his head. “Sam, you’ll have Bobby and Jody there, and possibly other detectives—I really don’t think I’d be helpful.”

“Dean…” Sam paused. “I was kinda hoping you’d be there to make things smoother with Castiel as well.”

Dean stiffened in his chair, feeling his heart suddenly pump stupidly fast. “What do you mean?”

“Well, you and he are a lot closer than he and I, or he and Bobby even. We just wanted to make sure he was comfortable with everything—”

“—Oh. You don’t need me for that.”

“Well it would be nice to have a friend there. You know Castiel isn’t the easiest person to get along with, but you seem to do just fine.”

“He’s not hard to get along with, Sam, he’s just uncomfortable around strangers. You’re not a stranger anymore. And he would only want to help you, if anything, so you don’t need to worry about Cas.” Dean stopped. He hadn’t been prepared for that, for the sudden rush to Castiel’s defense. He returned his coffee to his lips to stow his words, wishing it were hot enough to burn his tongue and to burn away the feelings that were now swimming beneath his chest. 

“See? This is my point. You get that about him.”

Dean shrugged as nonchalantly as he could. “Didn’t think it was that difficult to get.”

“I just think it would go easier if you were there. And I meant what I said about wanting your advice.”

Dean shook his head, adamant. “Sammy, no. I’m not going.”

“Why not? You said you didn’t have other plans.”

Dean looked at him squarely. “Ever think I don’t particularly want to see Mom’s murder like that again? Jesus, I was there: I fucking remember all of it.”

Sam’s eyes narrowed. “Dean, I’m asking for your help.”

“And today I’m saying no.”

“I don’t get it—you’ve been fine with everything else about this—”

Dean slammed down his coffee mug, which was thankfully almost empty. “I don’t want to walk into Castiel’s house and see mom murdered again, ok?”

“Dean: what’s really going on? Why won’t you talk to me?”

“ _Nothing’s_  going on. Why the hell does it fucking matter if I go with you or not, Sammy? I don’t want to do this, ok?”

Sam clenched his jaw. “Something is clearly bothering you and has been for awhile. And don’t think I haven’t noticed. I  _have_. I freaking live with you.”

Dean sneered at him. “Speaking of, you ever gonna get your own place?”

Sam blinked and sat back. “Is that what you really want?”

“Well you asked me what was bothering me, so there it is.”

Sam huffed darkly, shaking his head and staring at his feet. “That is such a fucking lie, and you know it.”

“You go ahead and think that if you want to.” Dean stood up and put his mug in the sink, making quite the show of running water in it.

“I’ll ask Cas today.”

Dean froze. Slowly, he turned around and met Sam’s defiant eyes.

“And I’m sure he’ll tell me what’s wrong with you. Since he seems to be the only person you care to talk to anyway.”

Sam couldn’t possibly understand how greatly that stung Dean; how it had once been so true and now no longer was. Once, he had even been able to talk to Sammy and now, even though they shared the same roof and lived together again, he still felt like he barely knew him. Everything was their mother’s murder, or the orchard. Five months he had lived here, and he felt like not a single brick had been built. He missed his brother, and he was staring right at him. He missed Bobby, and he saw him almost every day. And he missed Castiel, more than he could even begin to understand.

The roadmaps clicked in Dean’s head. He grabbed his keys and walked out the door, tasting the road on his lips and feeling the wind through his hair.

But he didn’t get nearly as far as he thought he would.

Dean drove through town. Rather, he drove into it, with every intention of continuing onward, when he found himself suddenly struck by it. Autumn in New England was a powerful thing, and yes, he had grown up in it, and yes, he had seen the trees change colors in this town many times before. But he was thinking about Sam, Bobby, his father, and his mother. He was blatantly ignoring the memory of the feeling of Castiel’s lips against his, like a whisper that was chiming steadfast in his ear for weeks now, unheeded. And the town was bright, and colorful, and the brickwork and cobblestones captivated him like it was his first time seeing them.

Then it struck him like a slap in the face. Dean realized quite suddenly that this town was _comforting_  to him. That seeing familiar faces on the sidewalk, that passing by a grocery store where he knew his apples were sold was like fucking sunlight. He pulled over his car and got out at a corner, walking along the street with his hands in his pockets, suddenly feeling like a tourist, staring agape at his own home as he looked up and around like he was seeing it for the very first time. Old, and new, all at once.

And then, that, right there— _that_  was a sight for the eyes.

A bright, sea-foam green, convertible, 1962 Dodge Dart was parked out in the lot of a grease shop. Dean stopped in his tracks and stared at it. He loved his Impala. He would never cheat on her with anything. But he couldn’t help his fingers as he reached out along it’s absurdly picturesque fins, white star detailing curving around the back. This car was a car that still believed in the future, where everyone would live like the Jetsons and the world made sense. This car made sense to Dean. It was fucking beautiful.

“You like it?”

Dean peered up at the odd accent. A man, likely in his early forties, bearded, and hiding smiling eyes beneath a cap, had joined Dean, wringing a greasy rag between his fingers. Dean nodded to him. “You could say that.”

The man laughed gently. “Well, sorry to say it: she’s not for sale.” He held out his hand. “Benny.”

“Dean.” They shook. “You own this place?”

“I do.” The man nodded his head down the road. “You own that black beauty down the block?”

Dean grinned, proud. “I do.”

Benny thought for a moment. “You run the orchard up the mountain, don’t you.”

“Co-run, yes.” Dean said, then paused. “Well, I  _help_  run it anyway. It’s my family’s land.”

“Thought I’d seen you up there. Damn good food. Gonna have to come up and get one more pie before the season’s out.”

Dean smiled at him. “You from around here?”

“No, no. Louisiana.”

“Why the hell would you move up here?”

The man shrugged. “You ever been to the South? It’s hotter than hell.”

“Yeah, well, it’s colder than a witches’ tit up here. Heat’s the lesser of two evils, if you ask me.”

Benny laughed. “My wife wanted to come home. She’s from these parts. Figured why not move? Hated the hurricanes, anyway.”

Dean chuckled, then said softly, “Yeah, it’s not a bad place.” He cleared his throat. “Well—you take care of this car.”

Benny tilted his chin down, regarding Dean seriously. “You ever need work done on yours, you let me know. Wouldn’t mind gettin’ my hands on that engine.”

Dean laughed loudly, turning to walk away. “Fat chance. I take care of her myself.”

“If that’s true,” Benny called after him, “Then you best come work for me at some point.” Dean stopped in his tracks and turned, his eyebrows raised in doubt as the man continued. “Always need more classic car-heads.”

Dean nodded slowly, his jaw jutting forward as he processed. “I’ll keep that in mind.” He slowly began to walk backwards on his way. “It was nice to meet you, Benny…”

“Lafitte.”

“Benny Lafitte. You have a good one.”

“You too—I’ll be coming up to get those pies!”

Dean laughed, waved, and turned around. Benny seemed a decent fellow—anyone who could be trusted to work on a car like that almost had to be. Not that Dean planned on leaving the Impala in anyone else’s hands ever, but…

Working at a mechanic’s shop. It wouldn’t have been the first time he had done it, and it was actually one of Dean’s favorite jobs he had ever held. But he hadn’t been all too fond of working on the newer car models, their innards tangled up and hidden, complicated in grand schemes to keep the dealerships rich. But growing up on a farm, seeing his father work on the tractor, running back and forth under Bobby’s gaze in the rubbish piles, working on spare, broken engines like he could fix them all on his own with one, simple wrench… Dean hadn’t even processed the thought of a second job, or perhaps even a new one in this town.

It was finally occurring to him just how much opportunity lay around every corner, the idea settling into his bones until the very heart of him seemed to change. This was something he could get used to. This wasn’t a haunted town anymore. It was growing and vibrant. He no longer desired to leave. He desired to stay. Sam and Bobby weren’t detached from his life; he had been detached from them.

He pulled out his phone and texted Sam. _I’m sorry. I really am. Don’t ask Cas. I’ll tell you tonight at dinner. Maybe at Bobby’s? Ask him, ok?_

The reply was almost instantaneous.  _Thank you. I’m sorry too. I’ll ask :)._  Dean smiled gently, laughing through his nose and typing out the thing he told his brother when he didn’t want to say “I love you.”  _Bitch._

Two seconds later, his phone beeped.  _Jerk_.

—————————————

Dean had thought that the chance to talk with Sam alone was never going to present itself after dinner. He, Sam, and Bobby were gathered in the sitting room, digesting with their belts loosened and chatting lazily about the day. Sam did not divulge too much to avoid upsetting Dean, but it was clear that he felt great insight had been achieved. On what, Dean wasn’t certain, and on some level he regretted not joining them. But today had been important for both of them in different ways, though he wasn’t sure he communicated that fact well when he talked about how amazing that Dodge Dart had been.

Bobby and Sam were stretched out in armchairs, and Dean lay on the couch, running a hand in absent circles across his belly, his beer snuggled in the crook of his arm. He looked around at the living room. Bobby had done a tremendous thing in cleaning himself up. The place looked almost as clean and fresh as Dean remembered it being when he was a kid. Granted, Dean had helped him some in the past few months. On nights when Bobby’s hands were shaking from nerves or cravings, Dean would follow him home from work and sit him down, talking him through the rougher bits and cleaning up the clutter as he went. Jody had gone a long way for Bobby’s self-motivation, too. That and, of course, hearing positive review after positive review for his out-of-retirement cooking.

Bobby’s cell phone rang, and he, blushing so profusely that Dean and Sam giggled, stood up to take the call in the other room. “Hey, Jody…”

Sam turned to grin at Dean. “It would be wrong of us to eavesdrop and then tease him later, right?”

Dean laughed softly, nodding vaguely in his distraction. All night he’d been hoping for a moment to speak with Sam to explain things, and now that it had suddenly presented itself, Dean felt his mouth go dry. “Yeah, probably. Listen, Sam…” He sat up from where he lay, and he turned around to look at his brother fully. “About today…”

Sam held up a hand. “You don’t have to tell me anything, Dean.”

“I know that, but, I want to.” He stopped and took a deep breath, grateful that Sam didn’t rush him. He just sat and listened, his eyes patient and steady.

Dean let out a heavy sigh. “Cas and I are kind of—it’s hard to explain. We’re kind of…not getting along.” He stopped.

“What happened?”

“Well…” Dean wrung a hand against the back of his neck, rubbing at the skin there until it burned red. “It’s kind of a long story and it’s not really mine to tell, but needless to say we’re not really talking anymore. Well, we’re talking, but…”

In half of his mind, Dean heard the words he was saying and knew, absolutely knew, that they made no sense to Sam. Wildly, for a moment, he thought that this must be what it’s like to be a customer at the restaurant and have Castiel try to talk to you. But Sam—good, mediator Sam—simply nodded his head.

“Things aren’t right?”

“No, they’re not.”

Sam nodded again. “Was it something he did, or said?”

“No. He’s been nothing but honest with me, and I can’t seem to… handle that.” Dean dropped his face to his hands, ashamed.

“What was he honest about?”

“His life. The past. I don’t know, everything?” Dean felt the whole story burning at the back of his tongue, rising like bile, desperate to find a way out. Why couldn’t he say it? Why couldn’t he tell Sam? Somehow, something was able to escape from him, some kind of half-truth. “Sam, our relationship is different.”

“Since the store opened? Or since the fighting?”

“Since—since we…” Dean looked at Sam, and that was a mistake, because he found himself suddenly laughing and then wanting to rip his heart out in the next second. Sam wouldn’t judge him. Sam wouldn’t care. So why was this so hard? Suddenly, Dean exhaled, giving up the fight. “Look, it doesn’t matter.”

“What?”

“Sam, forget it, ok?”

“Come on, Dean, tell me.”

“Sammy, I don’t want to!” He felt like child, and he could see Sam’s amusement rising. “This isn’t funny, Sam.”

“So then tell me what’s going on.”

“I can’t just… I just can’t, ok?”

“What, are you guys dating or something?”

It was a joke. It was a joke because Sam’s eyes were laughing, and he was braced for the anticipated recoil from his brother. Except it didn’t come. Dean flushed red and then paled, his eyes grew wide, and then realization dawned across Sam’s face. Beautiful, hilarious, _humiliating_  realization. “Oh my God you guys are dating.”

“We’re not dating, Sam!”

“Holy shit, yes you are.”

“No, no! We haven’t even gone out on one date at all, ok?” Dean’s voice was loud and bizarrely high-pitched. Sam burst into laughter. He held up a hand, as if he was trying to apologize for it, but he couldn’t stop.

“It’s not funny, Sam.”

“I know, I know it’s not, I just… Wow. I had no idea.”

“Yeah, and you still don’t. We’re not dating, you asshole. We’re just…. I don’t know what we are.”

Sam wiped his eyes, shoulders still shaking, fixing his mouth into something less of a smile as he looked at Dean. “So… I can see why you had a lot on your mind lately.”

Dean nodded, and after a long moment, he finally spoke, his voice low. “I haven’t been too great about it, I think.”

Sam took a deep breath. “Do you like him?”

“It’s not that simple.”

“Well, I don’t know.” Sam leaned forward in his seat, steepling his hands together. “Call me naive, but I think it really is that simple.”

Dean shook his head. “Cas and I are very complicated, and there’s stuff in his past… I don’t know if I can deal with all of this. I kept thinking I’d understand better, but it’s been a month and—I can feel us falling apart and I don’t think I can fix it.”

“Do you want to fix it?”

After a moment, Dean nodded. “Yes. He’s my… he’s my best friend, Sam. I’ve never even had one of those before.” He glanced at Sam, and saw the very small hurt that crossed his face before it was hidden away. He rushed to clarify. “Sammy, you’re not my best friend, you’re my  _brother_. That shit’s thicker than water.”

“No, Dean, it’s ok. You and I… we haven’t always been the closest, especially since…I’m not sure,” Sam paused. “I’m not sure you ever forgave me for moving away.”

Dean’s face crumpled. “Sam, of course I did. I  _do_. I just… I needed my little brother. I thought… I always thought it meant you didn’t need me. I mean, hell, you were always the best part of home. You, and Bobby. When you left…”

“When I left, you left. I know, Dean.” Sam watched his brother carefully, his eyes darting across his face. “You forgive me?”

Dean nodded, his throat closing up as he laughed darkly. “You forgive me?”

Sam chuckled. “For what, everything?”

Dean smiled broadly. “Yeah, basically.”

“Always.”

They stared down at their beers, not quite able to meet each other’s eyes anymore. Bobby’s voice could be heard gently drifting down the hall—he sounded so different sometimes when he talked to or about Jody. The happiness, the tease in his voice, carried over in such an obvious way. Dean remembered for a moment how, even as a kid, he would see the way Bobby looked at Jody, then look away. Or how Jody would laugh especially loudly at Bobby’s jokes. Love made so much sense to him when he was a kid—it seemed so simple. You love someone, they love you, it’s all taken care of. But as he’d grown up he’d abandoned that idea by loving and leaving, or worse, loving and hurting, like with Lisa. And now, possibly, with Cas. “Why is this shit so hard, Sam?”

“Which shit are you referring to?”

Dean heard the grin in Sam’s voice and looked up to find his brother leaning back in his chair, looking almost blissful. Dean smiled softly at him. “Love.”

Sam took a deep breath and sighed. “Love isn’t that hard, Dean. I just think sometimes you put too many expectations on it.” He checked in with his brother before continuing. “Nobody’s perfect. You just have to decide if you’re ever gonna be ok with that.”

The small voices of protest within Dean slowly grew to silence, and then acceptance. Dean and Sam sat in the quiet, alone and together, listening to the clock tick on the wall and the sound of Bobby’s laughter echoing through the hall.


	10. Distance

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Pulled apart and brought together.

It was a few days before Halloween, and the first real cold front gripped the countryside hard. Frost tipped the branches and grasses, turning the few remaining orange leaves brown. Bitter winds scattered them along the streets and roads, whirling past people, forcing them to bundle their coats tighter and wrap their scarves closer. Dean awoke early on that Saturday morning, curled up in his sheets and comforter, unwilling to get up to answer the call of nature that would force him to tiptoe across the cold floor. He heard Sam knock on his door, saying he was heading into the station. Dean mumbled something back, then plunked his head back down onto his pillow and promptly fell back asleep for another four hours.

By the time he woke again, the sun was shining brightly, and his stomach and bladder were insisting on being heard, which was enough to finally motivate him to move. He made his way into the bathroom and to the shower, warming himself in the steam. Then, wrapping up in flannel-lined jeans and a sweater, he settled down at the kitchen table. Crafting a small sandwich, he was just thinking to himself that today seemed the absolute perfect day in which to do nothing at all, when his cell-phone rang. Dean slipped it from his pocket, looked down at the screen—and felt the base drop out from his gut.

He couldn’t exactly hit ignore, although he wanted to so badly. He also wanted to answer it, but there was a lump in his throat where there should have been a voice. Castiel  _never_ called Dean, never. Not even before things got weird between them. He would either text, or leave a note in a strategic place in the restaurant. Dean understood that he did this to avoid talking, and that it certainly wasn’t something to take personally, because that was just Cas.

Three rings later, Dean finally summoned his courage and flipped the phone open. He hoped desperately the he didn’t sound as nervous as he felt.

“Hello?”

“Hello Dean.” Castiel paused. “How are you?”

“I’m ok. Just finishing up lunch. What’s up?” He stood, opening the fridge and tucking the deli meats back inside.

“Oh, well I… isn’t it a little early for lunch?”

“Late breakfast, then.”

“Ah. I suppose that makes sense.” Again, Castiel paused, and Dean found himself staring at the ceiling, biting his tongue as he waited. And then, finally, Castiel spoke. “Listen, Dean, I’m not sure this is the best thing to say on the phone, but…”

Dean felt his heart stop.

“I think you should come up and see this. I found something—some things, really—that belonged to your father.”

Dean started. “What?”

“To your father? I was going through the attic and I found some things that belonged to your—”

“Yeah, no, I heard you, I just… what kind of stuff?”

“Well…” Dean heard Castiel sigh on the other line, and could almost see his face crinkling up in his struggle to communicate. “Boxes. And papers in the boxes. I didn’t want to go through them after I figured out who they belonged to, so I really don’t know what’s in them. And now, obviously, they don’t belong to your father but to  _you_ , so… will you come over?”

Dean nodded slowly, then realized he had to speak. “Yeah, yeah, I’ll be right there.”

It was a good thing that Dean could be preoccupied as he drove up the mountain, thinking of what his father had left behind. The fact that his father had left  _anything_  behind in the house at all was confusing enough. When he had moved with his boys to Paper Mill, he had closed and locked the door with such finality. Dean had wondered, as he got older, if perhaps his father had one day intended to return. That he had considered the farm a type of paradise, reserved for the day when he finally allowed Mary’s soul to rest; when he finally found her killer. But that didn’t matter. Because John never did solve his wife’s murder, and he grew to hate the sight of the farm, even the mention of it. The house had tormented Dean the same way, so much his father’s son without being aware of his influence. It wasn’t until Castiel moved in and changed everything that Dean even considered, for a moment, that it was a truly livable place. It had been months since Dean had felt haunted by that house.

Of course, lately, the thought of it made his stomach churn for a completely different reason.

Castiel was waiting on the front porch for Dean, leaning against the door, his arms folded tightly, staring down at the white boards of the porch. Dean felt his stomach twitch nervously as he climbed out of the Impala. He had seen Castiel at work just last night, and as usual, their occasional glances or small bits of conversation had seemed as normal as they could be. Castiel had been all smiles and politeness. But suddenly, somehow in this moment, the look on Castiel’s face was completely different. They were suddenly out of context, out of their comfort zone, and Dean realized with a sharp pang that this was the first time he had set foot in the house since that night. He almost couldn’t bear to meet Castiel’s eyes as he walked up the porch steps, his breath catching in his chest.

“Hey, Cas.”

“Hello.” Castiel swallowed and licked his lips. He hesitated briefly, then opened the door and stepped back. “Come in.”

Dean nodded, passing the threshold and trying very hard not to look at the wall where Castiel had kissed him, at the couch where they had lain together. That happened over a month ago, he thought dimly. But the echoes were bright and burning, refusing to be ignored. Dean’s mouth set itself into a deep frown. Why was this house seemingly destined to eat away at him? The entryway, the stairs, even the wainscoting on the wall. In some way or another, it seemed that every time Dean grew to accept this place, it became a monster of memories all over again. He shoved his hands into his pockets, turning as Castiel closed the door behind them.

“Thanks for coming.”

“Sure.”

Castiel swallowed again, and seemed unable to look at him. Dean tilted his head, staring at the man. He had never seen Castiel this un-nerved. Except, perhaps, when they had first met. But then there had been no history, no strangeness there except the unknown. Now Dean felt like he knew too much, and he would give anything to start over. He wondered if Castiel was thinking the same thing, struggling with the permanence of their last encounter here with equal frustration. Dean cleared his throat, speaking as a kindness because Castiel seemed unable to do so. “So, this stuff… it’s in the attic?”

“Oh, um, yes. Upstairs.” Castiel gestured, and then began to lead the way. Dean followed him, the silence between them highlighting the creaking of the steps. Castiel turned left, leading down to the end of the hallway.

The attic space was accessed by a normal door on the right side that opened into a small, corner room with a slanted roof. It could theoretically have become another, although very cramped, bedroom, should the need ever have arisen. But that need clearly never revealed itself, and it became the musty storage space of the upstairs. One small window, caulked shut and still slightly dirty, allowed in the slightest amount of light. The floor and walls were barely finished, and tucked in the far wall there was another door, almost hidden in the corner, where the water heater and fuse box were stowed. Castiel opened the room, revealing a few large tupperware containers and cardboard boxes stacked neatly up against the left wall.

“These boxes… I found them in with the water heater, and I meant to sort through them sooner, but things got in the way… So I just sort of pushed them over there,” he pointed. “And I only started going through them last night…”

He joined Dean in the center of the room, just before the ceiling began to slant downward, and pulled on the hanging chain to turn the light on. Dean blinked against a shower of dust that poured down as Castiel continued. “When I realized what they were… I had to call you.”

Dean was staring at the boxes, recognizing his father’s handwriting on a few of them. “Thank you.” His voice was hoarse, and after a second, he drew his eyes back to Castiel, who was watching him sadly.

“Are you going to be ok?”

Dean felt the corners of his mouth tighten. Of course Castiel would ask that; of course he would be concerned. Dean shrugged gently. “Sam and I went through enough stuff like this when Dad died. I’ll be ok.”

Castiel shook his head. “I should have told you to bring Sam as well—”

“Don’t worry about it. Sam’s working today anyway.”

“He’s at the precinct?”

“Yeah.”

“Ah.”

Silence fell again, and Dean could tell Castiel was about to leave, so he blurted out, “It’s good to see you. Not at work, I mean. You know.”

Castiel blinked heavily and stared up at him; the small height difference between them amplified as Castiel tilted his head down. He worked his jaw for a moment, then looked away, saying quietly, “It’s good to see you too.”

The whisper was heartbreaking, devoid of inflection and utterly painful to hear. Needing to seek and to give comfort somehow, Dean lifted a hand, but he didn’t know what to do with it. Slowly, he settled it on Castiel’s shoulder. But that felt too casual, and Dean was trying to say something more than that, so he trailed it clumsily down to Castiel’s elbow, and then to his hand, finding his fingers and squeezing them gently.

He didn’t know how he wanted Castiel to react, but feeling him jerk and back away was definitely not it. Castiel shook his head and cleared his throat. “If you, uh, need help with any of this, Dean, let me know. I’ll be downstairs.”

“Cas, wait—”

Castiel was already out the door, but he paused, staring down at the hallway floor with his hand poised on the door frame. He said nothing; he waited. Dean was fishing for words but wasn’t finding them. Eventually, something completely unsatisfying tumbled from him in an ungainly manner. “I’ll, uh… I’ll let you know if I need any help.”

He could have been imagining things, but Dean felt like he caught a fraction of the truth, a wilting, crumpling expression that crossed Castiel’s profile before it was gone, before he covered it up and hid it away. He nodded tersely and disappeared around the corner.

Dean listened as his footsteps retreated down the stairs, then promptly thumped his head against the wall a few times. What the hell was wrong with him?

He turned around and slid his back down the wall, reaching a hand over to the boxes that were stacked near him and clumsily tugging one over. Should he go downstairs? Should he find Castiel and say something to him? But say  _what_ and  _do_  what, exactly? Questions he had asked himself almost daily and yet still had no answer. He sighed heavily and stared at the paper he extracted from the cardboard, half-reading and half-caring what it said. But then two words jumped out at him, and he suddenly cared quite a bit: his name was scribbled at the top.

His name, written in pencil, his teacher’s name, and the date. He stared at it. Third grade. His third grade essay about his favorite day of the week. He drew it closer to his face, blowing away the dust and grime that had accumulated on it, and read, and remembered.

His eyebrows lifted, contracted, and he covered the gentle laugh that escaped his lips. Then he suddenly grabbed a handful of papers, pulling out a stack and flipping through them. _Dean Winchester, Dean Winchester, Dean Winchester_ —he had apparently gone through a phase where he wrote the ‘n’s in his name backwards, and Winchester looked more like “Wincestr” sometimes, but it was his name, his name, his name. Third grade paper, fourth grade book report, a third grade construction paper project with a horse and cowboy still clinging to the paper delicately. He had drawn a lasso above the cowboy, and he remembered doing that. Sam had asked him—tiny, baby Sam had asked him—where the Cowboy’s rope was, and so Dean had drawn it in very quickly. The page beneath it was his paragraph describing what he wanted to be when he grew up:  _I want to be a cowboy because they are brave and save people and they get to ride horses which seems neat. I like horses_.

And then something clicked in his head that hadn’t had a chance to register before. The third grade, the fourth grade… He scrambled through the pages, double checking himself, but he knew those dates weren’t a lie, he knew they were correct—he remembered his teacher’s names and the year that they taught him…

They had moved out of this house long before Dean had ever entered the third grade.

Dean stared around him, at the boxes stacked high, and suddenly he threw himself at them like a madman, pulling them in and reading the titles—kitchen, dining room—that didn’t make sense—bedroom… these were the boxes from their move. He flipped open a tupperware lid. Dust flew away from it and the plastic crackled dangerously with age. He fished his hands through the stacks of paper: Sam Winchester.

Sam Winchester’s middle school research paper on the History of America. Sam Winchester’s fifth grade Declaration of Independence project—there, at the bottom of the bin, was a small, paper, tri-corner hat. Dean remembered helping Sam to make this. They had spent hours on it, and had made three before they got one that looked even close to correct. Dean held it in his hands and laughed, wiped the back of his hand under his eyes, then laughed again, fishing for another box. This one was filled with both his and Sam’s things—notes they had left for each other on the refrigerator, notes they had left for their father.

_Dean: studying at Carla’s. And yes, we’re just studying. Will be home by 8. — Sam._

_Dad, I got the milk. — Dean._

_Dean: it’s your turn to clean the bathroom. Have fun. — Sam._

Then, at the very bottom, a note scribbled in Dean’s handwriting, signed by both he and Sam, when they were very young.

_Bobby made soup for us! It’s in the fridge. Hope you had a good night! Love you. — Dean and Sammy._

Dean drew a shaking hand up to his mouth, staring at the words over and over again. He remembered writing that. He remembered the soup—potato—and how good it had been, how it had been weeks since they had eaten a home-cooked meal. Bobby had been babysitting them. And they had been hoping that they could see their daddy before they went to bed. But they didn’t. As usual. So Sam suggested they leave a note for him for when he came home from work.

Dean’s fingers trembled; the note was very worn around the edges, crinkled and wrinkled throughout its whole in a way that the other notes weren’t. Dean couldn’t begin to accurately process what that meant, because suddenly in his mind, he saw images of his father folding the note into his wallet, taking it with him to work, carrying it around in his pocket. Had he looked at it throughout his day? Were those wrinkles and wear lines from his father, folding and unfolding it, thinking of his sons and the nights he didn’t come home in time to tuck them into bed?

Slowly, Dean moved to the last box still shoved against the corner, an old, beaten, cardboard thing, water damaged and small. Dean opened it, gasping at his discovery: _pictures_. Stacks and stacks of worn, old, tattered photographs, aging yellow. Photographs of birthdays. Of Sammy in the snow. Of Dean in front of his first car, a piece-of-shit ford truck that Dean loved irrationally. And then, pictures of Mom. Pictures of Mary and her boys. Pictures of Mary and the baby: Mary and Sam—no—Mary and _Dean_. Dean flipped it over and double checked the date on the back. Yes, that  _was_  him. He and his mother. He, as a baby, and his mother in the hospital, meeting for the first time.

Dean dropped the rest of the photos and stared at this moment, one he had never seen before and, for some reason, had not realized he had never seen.

When his father had died, and he and Sam had gone through all his possessions, they had found very little pertaining to themselves. A couple of macaroni art posters, some papers here and there, report cards. It turned out, everything was here, in their old house. _Everything_.

Dean sat in his scattered history and dropped his head to his hands. His father had, in fact, come back here after all. Had carted memory after memory into this room and, what, locked them away so they would no longer torment him? Or was it possible that John Winchester came to this house, and came here often, sitting on the threadbare couch that had once been downstairs in the living room, and looked at pictures of his wife and his sons. Had he remembered those school projects with the clarity that Dean had? Had he gone through them tenderly, brushing away the ages and smiling, remembering the better days, the days when his sons were all at home—the days when his sons had loved him?

Dean was halfway down the stairs before he knew what he was doing.

He searched around, finding Castiel folded up in an armchair, reading in the living room. Dean stumbled towards him, and Castiel lifted his head. He stood up suddenly, taking stock. “Dean, what’s wrong? Is everything ok?”

Dean stared at him, his shoulders heaving. “My dad.”

“What? What about him?”

“It’s… it’s everything. It’s me and Sam. He… he kept it all.”

Castiel blinked at him, trying to understand. Dean shook his head, and he stared at the man in front of him, seeing him, beginning to understand why his feet had carried him downstairs and why he stood before him now. He tried to think of something to say, but then he realized there was nothing to think anymore. He just knew.

Reaching out, he weaved his fingers against Castiel’s face, pulled him in, and, with tilted head and open mouth, brought their lips together.

For a few seconds they stumbled there; Castiel moaned in surprise, moving with him gently, until he pulled away with a gasp. “Dean, what are you—”

“I miss you. I freaking miss you so much.” Dean wanted to kiss him again, but fought himself. He talked fast, trying to explain himself in a breathy rush, his eyes shut and his fingers painting their way through Castiel’s hair, settling on his shoulders and neck, his thumbs tracing the line of Cas’s collarbone under his shirt.

Castiel was breathing heavy. “But, Dean… you know I can’t give you—”

“I don’t care. I don’t fucking care about that.”

“But, Dean…” Cas sighed, shaking, placing his forehead against Dean’s and pulling a strangled sigh from him. “Dean, you  _will_.”

“Hey.” Dean opened his eyes, finding Cas’s so close to his own that he couldn’t focus. But he didn’t want to move and lose the contact between their skulls, the heaven that was blooming from that spot. “Why don’t you let me decide that, ok?”

“Dean, you can’t fix me.” Castiel’s voice quivered, but Dean laughed gently.

“Who the hell said I want to fix you? I just want to  _date_  you, man.” He hesitated, then pulled their lips together, gentle and chaste, filled with promise. “I want to try this thing.”

And Cas smiled. Finally, beautifully, Cas smiled. He found Dean’s hands, lacing their fingers together for a moment, before settling his arms around Dean’s neck. Dean was going to say something pithy, something sly and coy and teasing, because he felt so much joy bursting from his chest it was making him mad, but Castiel leaned forward and kissed him, pulling away to whisper, “I missed you too,” before he returned again.

They swayed on the spot, feeling and breathing each other, savoring each tender, explorative, and needing swipe of tongue, each little whimper. But eventually they separated, and they rejoined their foreheads together, lacing their arms around each other and leaning their hips together. Dean decided quite promptly that this was the best way to stand with Castiel ever, and that it would take quite a lot of convincing to move him.

“So,” Castiel whispered, biting his lips coyly, pulling Dean back in for a moment. They parted again, breathless. “So,” he repeated, panting softly. “When are you taking me on this date?”

“Tonight. Right now. We’re already there.”

Castiel laughed, rolling his head back and exposing a delicious throat that Dean could not resist. “But we…” he sighed happily and waited, humming gently against Dean’s lips, before he rolled his head back up. “We can’t tonight.”

“Why not?” Dean kissed his cheeks, running his lips a fraction over Cas’s skin and smiling at the way the stubble there tickled him.

“Because we have work.”

“Oh.” Dean stopped his gentle swaying, deciding very promptly that he hated work, and that he should burn the orchard down because it was stupid. “Well then, tomorrow.”

“On a Sunday? It’s a small town, nothing’s open on Sunday, Dean.”

He sighed. “Well I’m still taking you out tomorrow. And we’re going to have an awesome time. I can get us into any closed place, you know—I can pick locks.”

Castiel stared at him, and then laughed again. Dean wasn’t sure he had ever heard him laugh so often. “Ok then.”

“Ok.”

“But I would prefer not to get arrested.”

“Whatever, I’ve got connections on the force. They love me now. Well, they love Sam anyway.”

Cas grinned at him, and he picked up their swaying, their unintended dancing to a soundless tune. They moved in silence for a moment, hands feeling each other patiently, when he pulled his fingers up to Dean’s cheek and looked at him kindly and seriously. “What’s in those boxes upstairs, Dean?”

Dean stood for a while in perfect stillness, clenching his jaw and shutting his eyes, breathing to steady himself. Then he took Castiel’s hand and tugged, leading him without a word up the stairs and down the hall.

The door was still slightly ajar—he gently kicked it open, pulling Castiel in after him, and they stood together once again in the middle of the room. Looking around, Castiel leaned down and removed a few papers from a nearby box. “ _Dean Winchester_ …” he read aloud. “ _English class, Mr. Fenton_ …” Castiel looked up at him, but Dean did not meet his eyes. He stared down at the old, worn floorboards under his boots, listening as Castiel shifted through the sheets.

“Dean…” Castiel said, and Dean could hear the teasing humor hovering in his voice. “This elephant you drew is really something.”

Dean glanced up at the bloated, semi-recognizable gray mass he had drawn at age seven, mercifully labeled. Castiel was trying to make a joke, but Dean couldn’t bring himself to participate. He shook his head. “Why is all of this here, Cas. We moved out of this place long before I ever drew that, or wrote that paper. Why is it  _here_ , Cas? So far away from him…” He swallowed roughly. “Why did he even keep it at all.”

Castiel looked at him tenderly. “Because it’s yours Dean. It’s yours and it’s Sam’s, and it’s his. You were his son, Dean—he loved you.”

But Dean shook his head all the more violently, bringing a hand to his eyes, thinking but unable to say,  _how could you possibly know that?_  He peered through his fingers at the chaos. The photograph of him and his mother caught his eye, laying at the very top of a pile of pictures. He knelt down, folding his legs next to it and picking it up, handing it to Castiel, who took it carefully, gazing at it softly.

“She’s beautiful…” He gave it back and settled down next to Dean, crossing his legs and peering over Dean’s shoulder. They looked at it together, Dean’s fingers running over the fraying and browned edges. Castiel said very quietly, “What would you like to do, Dean?”

Dean sighed, looking down at his mother, and at the memories in stacks surrounding them. At length, he spoke. “I just want to stay here with you, for a bit. Can I do that?”

“Of course you can.”

Dean turned his face to Castiel’s, barely meeting his eyes before feeling overcome by their strength. How on earth it was capable for a man who had been through so much to be so strong, Dean simply did not understand. He fell once again to Castiel’s lips, finding comfort there, finding the breathless ease of weight lifting slowly off his heart.

They parted, and Castiel scooted away just slightly, satisfying his curiosity by pulling out another stack of papers and grinning at the contents. Dean watched him, staring at his lithe fingers as they ran over sheet after sheet, feeling with a great intensity every small thing Cas was doing for him in this moment.

Castiel wasn’t the only one who needed fixing; and he had stepped up to the job effortlessly.

Dean suddenly felt the distance between them, and so he closed it rapidly, spooning himself behind Cas and resting his head at the crook of his shoulder, breathing him in and circling arms around his waist, watching as Castiel easily shifted through each box and folder and memory, absorbing the brunt of the blow for Dean. More and more, Dean realized that what Castiel had said to him about his father, how Castiel had explained this disarray, was true. His father had, in fact, loved him. He had loved Sam, and he had loved Dean, and this collection—this dusty, tired, endless collection—was the proof of it. His inability to speak it, to say it, settled itself here.

Dean wrapped himself tighter around Cas, pulling him in, holding him as closely as he could. Castiel was physical, living proof of love and greatness in the shadow and echoes of a similar beast’s failure. Sitting amongst shattered dreams and unlived expectations, Cas somehow made it bearable.


	11. Desire

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Good idea, Bad idea.

To say that Dean was nervous for his first date with Castiel would be an understatement. There was a palpable trembling in his fingers as he awoke late on Sunday morning, drinking his coffee and trying to focus on the newspaper Sam had brought in. He couldn’t believe Sam had gone to work today. He had worked for seven solid days, and Dean knew that his hours were long. There were some nights when Sam arrived late at the apartment, long after Dean had closed up the restaurant and settled in with a beer and pointless TV. He hadn’t seen Sammy at all last night, which, considering everything that had happened, he definitely wished he could have. Sam needed a break, and Dean needed someone to distract him from his churning stomach.

Dean waited for as long as he could before he left, which turns out wasn’t very long. He had agreed to meet Castiel at three for a late lunch, but it was only 2:30 when Dean arrived at the entrance to the orchard. He drummed his fingers on the steering wheel; his errands in town had not taken nearly as long as he had anticipated. So he pulled into the restaurant’s empty parking lot, slid the well-worn Bad Company cassette into the player, and waited.

The song switched. Dean’s palms were sweating. He fumbled with the air conditioning—it was almost freezing outside, and he shivered as the cold blasts hit him, wriggling his fingers in front of the vents. The last thing he wanted was to pick up Cas with gross, sweaty palms. This naturally led Dean to thinking about holding Cas’s hand, and his stomach flopped unpleasantly.

He checked his watch. This was ridiculous, he thought to himself. He was going to pick up Castiel—punctual-to-a-point Castiel—who wouldn’t be upset if Dean arrived a little early.

After telling this to himself for the fifteenth time, he finally put the car into gear and climbed up the rest of the hill.

Castiel wasn’t going to be waiting on the porch or at the door, listening for the rumble of the Impala’s engine. He had told Dean as much last night, as they took their break together behind the store. He was leaning against the wall, tugging absently on the strings of Dean’s apron and speaking down at the ground with a soft, captivating smile playing about his lips. “I’m not going to wait for you at the porch this time. You will have to knock, Dean.”

“I’ve knocked before.”

“Yes, but…” Castiel met his eyes mischievously. “This is an official date now. There are _rules_.”

“Oh, I see.” Dean rolled his eyes, laughing, bracing a hand against the wood behind them and shaking his head. “You gonna make your grand entrance down the stairs?”

“Hardly, I’ll be answering the door, won’t I?”

They looked at each other, biting back the grins that threatened to swallow them whole. Eventually, Castiel blinked down at his feet, his face growing serious. He lifted his gaze slowly, and gently placed a hand over Dean’s heart. “Are you alright?”

They had had a difficult time extracting themselves from the attic to come down to work. Dean was so emotionally shaken that Castiel had told him he could take the night off, but Dean refused. Instead, he had loaded most of the boxes into the back of his car with the intent of sharing them with Sam and with Bobby later that evening.

Dean looked at Castiel tenderly, covering his hand with his own. “I’m ok.”

“Good. Then get back to work.”

Castiel turned abruptly and walked away, leaving Dean with his mouth agape. He fumbled for the words to some clever kind of come back, but that proved difficult as Dean was immediately regretting not kissing him. “Slavedriver,” he eventually settled on, catching Castiel at the door. He turned to smirk in response before disappearing into the kitchen.

Yeah. He definitely should have kissed him.

It was strange though. The intimacy that Dean knew existed between himself and Cas—that one that had been born out of a summer of work and friendship, that had lived and breathed in the dim, closed space of the attic—was seemingly at a start-over now. Dean owed a date to Cas—he owed several, actually. He had been thinking about kissing Cas all day, but now he wasn’t even sure if he could or should. Why was putting a label to what they were doing, or beginning to do—or  _attempting_  to begin to do—suddenly so earth-shattering and unsettling to him?

He knocked on the door, stood back, waited, and after a moment he saw Cas’s form descend the stairs, highlighted by the orange sun peering in through the windows. The door swung open, and Dean couldn’t help the grin that fitted itself instantly across his face. “Hey.”

“Hello.” Castiel’s lips quirked up ever so slightly. “You look nice.”

“Yeah, well… Thought I’d put on a fresh shirt and jeans, special for the occasion. They’re not even wrinkled.”

“I’m honored,” Cas teasingly raised a brow, about to step out on the porch, when Dean stopped him.

“Wait,” he said, and Castiel stopped. Dean revealed his left hand from behind his back, and his words fumbled together almost inaudibly. “I boucha flowers…” Castiel stared down at the bouquet that was quivering in Dean’s hand; he took it slowly, and Dean continued in a clearer voice: “You know, I thought I should, since this is an actual date and all, what with the knocking on the door…”

Castiel didn’t say anything, he just kept blinking at the flowers, and suddenly Dean felt like he had made a critical error. Was he not supposed to bring flowers to a guy? But Cas had brought him flowers—well, not  _technically_  flowers, but something better than flowers because it was made by hand, and oh God how did he fix this—when suddenly Castiel looked back up at him with eyes wide, deep and full of feeling. “Thank you. They’re beautiful.”

Relief swept over Dean, and he sighed, shaking at little. “Oh, good. I mean, I wasn’t sure what kind of flowers you would like, but I—”

He didn’t get much further. Castiel threw his arms around Dean and kissed him soundly.  When they parted, Dean smiled, his eyes still closed and his heart pounding to make him giddy. “Wasn’t that a bit forward for a first date, Cas?”

“Don’t care if it was.” Castiel pulled away, smiling at him, breathless. He tapped the flowers gently with a finger. “I think you’ve payed closer attention than you think you have.” He slipped back in the house, walking quickly towards the kitchen and gesturing to the pictures he had framed on the wall at the side of the stairs. “I’m just going to put these in water.”

Dean stepped in after him, looking at the photographs, realizing and remembering at the same time what their contents were: pictures of yellow flowers. Exactly what Dean had seen and automatically gravitated toward in the store. Dean shook his head, his mouth crooking into a smile, as he mumbled under his breath, “Now that’s some subliminal shit right there.”

“What?” Flowers now secure in a vase, Castiel reappeared at the end of the hallway, walking forward to set them on the entryway side-table.

“Nothing. You ready?”

Cas adjusted the blossoms carefully before turning and lacing his fingers through Dean’s. “Yes.” He leaned up and kissed him gently. “Where are we going?”

Dean smiled. “To eat.”

“That’s very specific, thank you. Then what?”

“Well, I’m not sure if you know this Cas…”

“Mmm?”

“But there’s a drive-in movie theatre at the edge of town.”

“I did not know that, no. Dare I ask what we are seeing?”

Together they moved through the doorway, Castiel only pausing for a moment to lock the door behind them. Dean grinned at him as Castiel rejoined their hands, and they made their way down the porch steps.

“My friend, we are about to watch Bruce Campbell kick some major ass.”

“You’re not serious.”

“Hell yes I am. Special showing of the greatest B-movie ever made…”

“No.”

“ _Evil Dead_.”

Castiel laughed, groaning in mock reluctance. They unknotted their fingers as he climbed into the Impala, Dean jogging to the other side and starting her up. He hesitated only a moment, then leaned across the seat and kissed Castiel again, because  _that was okay_. And holding hands was okay too. And he was going to watch all kinds of B-rated gore and awesomeness with Castiel. It didn’t matter that Dean would be seeing it for the twentieth time in his life, because he was about the share it with Cas. They were going somewhere _together_.

Flowers, he thought, had been an excellent idea.

——————————-

Two weeks later, and things got complicated.

Dean and Cas alternated ideas on where to go and what to do on their dates. Usually they attended private affairs, things with just the two of them, like walking in a park, or watching a movie on Cas or Dean’s couch, or cooking dinner for each other.  When they were alone, they were open and affectionate, allowing their hands to slide together, their arms to notch around each other. It was a pleasant distraction having Castiel’s arms looped around his waist as Dean tried to focus on making homemade spaghetti. But their behavior suddenly seemed to shift when they went out together in public.

Dean noticed it the first time they dined out. The restaurant wasn’t particularly fancy, and it was the middle of the day, so it wasn’t particularly crowded. But as they sat and dined together, Dean noticed a certain formality about their actions. It wasn’t unfriendly; they laughed and joked and spoke as much as they always did. But in the moments where Dean would have reached out to Cas to squeeze his shoulder, he  _didn’t_. The moment that their conversation would lull, and Dean simply wanted to nuzzle his head into the crook of Cas’s neck and shoulder and breathe him in, he  _didn’t_. He would stare down at his beer and _picture_  himself doing it, without actually following through.

Dean wasn’t the only one more reserved during their public outings. There was a certain stiffness about the way Castiel sat, a visible white tinting his knuckles as he clutched his glass of water or tea. It upset Dean to see, and it left Dean wondering: who had backed away first? Was Castiel following Dean’s lead, or was Dean following Castiel? In either case, it was obvious that neither one seemed prepared to take on the potential judgements of the outside world. Which was absurd.

Dean hadn’t told anyone he was taking Castiel out. Not even Sam, and Sam knew about Dean’s feelings. He had planned on telling Sam, and so often the words were on his lips, but he failed endlessly. He didn’t even consider telling Bobby, though Bobby was like family to him. He was so frustrated with himself; he would clench his fists and grind his teeth, telling himself repeatedly that it  _didn’t matter_. That he didn’t care what people thought. There was nothing wrong with it, and he  _knew_  there was nothing wrong with it. Dean had never in his life judged a gay man or a gay woman out in public with their lover or partner—in the latter case he had often enjoyed it. He looked back on that kind of voyeurism with a shudder, suddenly hyper-aware of his objectification now that he was participating in a similar thing. But in spite of that, the main point remained very clear to him: love was what love was—Dean never had any misconceptions about that. Which is perhaps why, in dealing with his own attraction to Castiel, he had only experienced a minor internal conflict before he accepted it as the truth of his body.

Dean  _didn’t care_  what people thought. He was happy to be dating a dude, to be dating Castiel, specifically. Cas was fucking awesome. Dean loved seeing his face, loved hearing him talk in that stupid low voice, even if he had the most boring things to say about a topic Dean couldn’t care two cents about. It was worth seeing his eyes light up as he spoke, his hands and fingers spread in earnest.

Dean did not know what their problem was. It left him pointing to a frustrating, breaking conclusion: he was afraid. Afraid of what, he couldn’t quite figure. Afraid of what someone stupid might do if they saw he and Cas together and didn’t like it? Afraid that he and Cas canoodling on a bench somewhere might come back to bite their business in the ass? Or was he afraid that, if people saw them out in public, what the two of them had would be somehow be made official, be made  _permanent_.

For now, they were keeping it their little secret; their little shared glances at work, and their gentle, unseen caresses as they passed each other. The secret was lovely in those moments; it was less so when Dean was actively reminded that they were keeping it a secret for untold and unexplained reasons.

And there was something else that was troubling Dean as well, something more pressing and definitely more urgent.

When Dean would take Castiel out, or Castiel would take Dean out, inevitably, the two of them would kiss.

The kissing was lovely. The kissing was heaven. The kissing was tender and kind and sincere; it was solid, the steadying force in the day. Dean leaned into those kisses to revive him when he was tired, to comfort him when he was low—he had come to rely on them like air, which was terrifying enough considering how little time he had spent engaged in a romantic affair with this man.

Not all kisses were about sex. Most weren’t, if Dean really thought about it. Familial kisses, friendly kisses—and the kind of kisses he usually shared with Cas… at first. At first, they would have nothing to do with sex.

But then, suddenly, things would change.

Dean would press himself into Cas, or Cas would moan against his lips, pulling back and returning with a vengeance. And then hell yes those kisses became about sex. They became hot and fiery, passion making them clumsy as they pulled and pushed at each other. More often than not one or the other would end up with half his shirt disheveled and a tongue working its way lower and lower on the neck, dipping into the crevasse between the collarbone, letting the teeth take over as they nibbled their way back. Earlobes, jawlines—Jesus  _fuck_  just thinking about those goddamn kisses sent Dean tumbling overboard. He didn’t know who was leading whom, he had no idea who was steering the boat—all he knew was it was both he and Cas who were competing with each other in lust, and that  _made no sense_.

Cas had told him—Cas had  _assured_  him again and again—that these kisses would only be just that: kisses. That he was incapable of arousal, or if he was, it wasn’t to be heeded by either of them. He had snuggled once into Dean’s neck and asked him, “Does it bother you? When we kiss, that it can’t go anywhere?”

Dean had paused before he had answered, because it was a very honest question that deserved a very honest answer. “Well, I mean…maybe sometimes…” Castiel had lowered his gaze, and Dean spoke quicker. “But I’m just glad to be kissing you at all, Cas. If that’s all there is, then that’s all there is. It’s ok.” He leaned down to reaffirm this, setting their lips together gently. “Besides,” he grinned. “I can take care of myself, you know.”

Which Dean had. Fucking  _often_. Especially when he’d come home late, and Sam would already be zonked on the couch, and the feeling was killing him, the feeling of Castiel’s burning mouth trailing kisses over and over and around and over and…

Cold showers were ridiculous because they didn’t do  _shit_.

Dean just did not understand why any of this was happening. Why was Castiel touching him like that, if he didn’t want anything? Was Cas completely unaware of what his kisses were doing when it got to that point? But Dean could hear the sounds he and Cas were making, and it seemed fucking impossible for either of them to be oblivious. Then, Dean wondered with fear, what if he was somehow initiating it, that this was all because of his own needs, and Castiel was just going along with it?

So the next night they went out together, meeting at Castiel’s house after their shift at the restaurant, eating dinner, and sitting together onto the couch, he made it a point not to get carried away. So much a point that he was barely touching Cas—only their knees connected as  _The Dirty Dozen_  played softly on Cas’s old TV. And then:  _Cas started it_. Cas goddamn started it, and Dean was so confused and frustrated that he did not know what on earth to do. Except go home and try out the cold shower theory one more time.

He was going to have to talk to Cas, and soon. It was getting to be too much for him, and that was exactly the thing Castiel had feared, and that Dean hadn’t thought for a second would be a legitimate thing to fear. But he couldn’t fucking help it. He wanted Cas—he wanted him desperately—and when they pressed against each other like that, he felt completely helpless to his desire.

But then the next day would dawn. And Dean and Cas would talk and be and it was  _normal_ , it would be the defined parameters, and they would kiss goodnight in a non-sexual way, and Dean was able to convince himself that things were going to be fine without the need for conversation.

By November the 28th, it suddenly occurred to Dean that he and Cas had been going out for roughly a month. He grimaced as he realized he hadn’t bothered to make note of the actual date when he first took Cas out to see a movie. Cas probably knew. He’d have to find a way to ask him as nonchalantly as possible while they were at work this evening. Dean realized, his eyes widening, if it actually  _was_  their anniversary, or worse, if they had passed it, he had better have some kind of plans to make up for it.

Or would Castiel even care? He didn’t seem like the kind of guy that cared. Although people did tend to care about these sorts of things…

Shit.

It had been years since Dean had had something like this to keep in mind. To be honest with himself, there were only a very few important dates that ever made an impact on his memory—the birthdays of his family, and the day his mother died—he didn’t even know when Castiel’s birthday was. Jesus Christ, he was a goddamn failure as a boyfriend.

And then Dean remembered that they had never even talked about  _what_  to call each other, and he felt even worse and even more confused.

At 8:30 that night, Castiel closed the doors behind the last customers. Dean watched discretely through his eyelashes, smiling softly. He could have just been imagining it—it was possible that Dean was so used to Castiel’s anachronistic phrasing and physical stuttering that, by now, he failed to see how it was incomprehensible—but Cas did seem to be getting better at talking to strangers. Something warm glowed within Dean when he thought, for an instant, that it might have been his influence.

There were just two wait-staff there, Dana and Jason. They talked quietly to each other while helping to wipe down the tables, re-stacking the menus and placing the napkin-wrapped utensils in the basket under the hostess table. They were preoccupied enough that Castiel clearly felt safe to share a quick and decidedly private look with Dean as he locked the doors. Then, tugging casually on his tie, he strolled over to the bar and leaned against it. “Slow night.”

“Yeah.” Dean tried very hard not to smile, in case Dana or Jason looked over. Secret, he reminded himself. This was secret. And right now he was enjoying it that way. He circled his cleaning rag on the dark wooden bar, finding it stupidly hard not to giggle. “Got any plans later?”

“Could.” Castiel was smirking at a spot across from him on the wall. “What are you doing tonight?”

“Y—” Dean faltered, the humor quickly draining from the situation. He was about to say  _You_ , because, when asked that question, of course he would say  _You_. It was almost reflexive flirting. But Dean actually  _couldn’t_  say that in this moment. Suddenly, he felt sick. “Oh, uh… nothing.”

Castiel raised an eyebrow, finally looking at Dean, his smile dropping. “You ok?”

Dean hesitated, opening his mouth to answer, to say something about maybe needing to talk later, to say something that he felt he was ultimately going to regret, when Dana and Jason approached them.

“We’re all done.”

Castiel turned around. “Cash totals secure?”

Dana nodded, handing him the double checked receipts. “Yup. Can we head out?”

Castiel lifted his wrist, glancing down at his watch. “You’re a half hour early…”

The pair nodded, shifting their feet and staring up at Castiel. Dean bit the inside of his lip—they reminded him of Sam, who had this unique ability to woo almost anyone to his side with the most incredible puppy-dog-eyes the world had ever seen. It was positively pathetic, so it wasn’t a surprise when, eventually, Castiel sighed and inclined his head. “Alright,  _fine_. But be here all the earlier tomorrow.”

Dana pumped a fist at her side and took off without another word, like she was terrified Castiel would change his mind. Jason, however, paused. “Well, are we even working tomorrow?”

Dean looked up as Castiel responded, his brow furrowing. “Of course you’re working tomorrow.”

“Ok, ok, I just thought… Whatever.” Jason held up his hands and walked out. “Thanks, Mr. Allen. See you tomorrow.”

Dean shook his head as the door closed. “He was trying to get out of work! Ridiculo—Mmpf!” He couldn’t finish the word, because Castiel’s mouth had crashed against his own. He stuttered in surprise for just a second before relaxing into it, sighing. Slowly, Castiel slid away from him, settling into a seat across the bar and smiling coyly. “I’ve been wanting to do that all night.”

Dean remembered vaguely that there was something he needed to speak to Cas about, but Cas had broken off the kiss too soon, and Dean was unable to find the words he wanted. Eventually, he stopped trying, and acquiesced to the greater demand on his mind. Leaning over, he halved the distance between them and reunited their lips, letting the minutes tick by…

“Well, it figures.”

_Bobby_.

Dean and Cas flew apart faster than lightning, hands wiping away at their mouths and running through their hair in a maddening search for a task, as they whirled around and stared. Bobby had just appeared through the kitchen door. Dean had forgotten he was still here, and for three seconds he thought wildly, oh God, he knows now. He saw, and he knows.

But Bobby was busy fitting his baseball cap on his downturned, shaking head, staring at the phone in his hands. “Weather’s saying we’re gonna get snow big time tomorrow. Yesterday they were saying it was nothing, now…”

“Huh?” Dean heard how out of breath he sounded, but Bobby didn’t seem to notice. He tucked his phone away as he crossed the room towards them, and Dean came around from behind the bar.

“Damn cold front—first snow of the year, of course it’ll be a big one.” Bobby looked at him sternly. “You did watch the weather this week, didn’t you?”

“Oh, yeah…” Dean trailed off—he had watched it  _earlier_  in the week. Castiel shook his head and stepped forward.

“How much are they predicting?”

“Up to two feet, maybe more in other parts. It’s gonna start sometime around noon or five tomorrow, and isn’t  _that_  nice and specific.” Bobby rolled his eyes. “Like a goddamn cable company.”

Castiel’s eyes widened. He glanced at Dean. “We’ll need to close up for the weekend, then, won’t we.”

“Definitely,” Bobby said. He turned to grab his coat from the rack at the door, settling it around his shoulders and zipping it up. “Tomorrow as well. On my way out I can change the sign at the bottom of the road, keep people from risking the drive up here.”

“Thanks,” Dean nodded. “We can take care of everything here.”

Bobby’s hand was on the door. “Don’t forget the pipes, Dean.”

“I won’t.”

They said their goodnights, and a cold blast manage to force its way in just before Dean locked the door behind him. “How ‘bout that.”

“I know,” Cas said.

“Jason wasn’t trying to get out of work. That little bastard just watches the weather channel.” He turned around as Cas nodded. Dean leaned against the door, realizing, with a growing mischief, that they were alone. “Can’t imagine why he’d be afraid to just  _say_  that.”

Castiel raised an eyebrow, settling his gaze on Dean. “I can be quite intimidating, you know.”

“Nah,” Dean shook his head. “Not how I’d describe you.”

“Oh really.”

“Yeah, I’m thinking more…” He stared at Castiel, his mouth quirking. “ _Nerd_.”

Castiel’s head leaned back onto his shoulders. He folded his arms, his suit jacket bunching around him as his jaw jutted forward. “Nerd, huh?”

“Yup.”

“Well.” Castiel began to weave slowly around the tables, his eyes staring straight into Dean’s. Dean felt his heart-rate skyrocket as Castiel neared. “It just so happens that this _nerd_  can kick your ass.”

Dean laughed outright. “Prove it.”

“Fine.”

For about two seconds, they were completely still; then Castiel pounced. His arms were up and around Dean’s waist, pulling him from the wall and heaving him around. Dean was ready for him, and, in their grapple, his arm almost knocked down the review he had framed for Cas all those months ago. “Shit, Cas, be careful—”

Castiel was not deterred. It was some bizarre sort of wrestling, part violence, part laughing, and part kissing. They were slamming into chairs and tables, feet pushing and grappling with the ground for traction, each trying to get the better of each other, to knock them off their feet. Dean had the slight advantage of weight and height, but that hardly mattered where Castiel was concerned, all lithe and steel and will. Eventually, panting, Castiel maneuvered, catching Dean off guard and kicking a knee out from under him. Dean tumbled into a chair, reaching up to catch Castiel’s hands as he came down, straddling and overpowering him. They locked their fingers together, pushing until their limbs shook, when Dean, with a gasp, gave up the fight, and Cas came crashing down onto him.

He peppered kisses down Dean’s face, fingers lacing around his cheeks and jaw. Dean smiled and closed his eyes, letting his hands, shivering with exertion, come up to Castiel’s shoulders, sliding up and down his arms.

“Ok. You got me.”

“Damn right I do.”

They kissed again, and Dean felt the heat within him at a boiling point from being so physical with Cas, from pushing and shoving and taking with him. Lust spiked its fingers into his brain; he was going to lose it, every sense and thought and feeling, so he broke away.

“Seriously, Cas, we gotta prep for the snow tomorrow.”

“I don’t really care right now.” Cas kissed him again thoroughly, pulling away with a gasp to kiss Dean’s eyelids.

“But Cas…” Dean groaned, feeling Castiel’s hands slip beneath the collar of his shirt. “Cas, you should—”

“ _Dean_.” Castiel’s voice was blunt, suddenly impatient, and when Dean snapped his eyes open, he saw there was something cascading through Castiel, something intense. It burned Dean’s gaze; a waterfall being unleashed. “Shut.  _Up_.”

Castiel fell away and to his knees, throwing open Dean’s legs and perching between them, as he gripped a hold of Dean’s zipper and pulled it down roughly.

“Cas, what are you—”

But Dean didn’t say anything else. He  _couldn’t_  say anything else. The air escaped from his throat unguided. He was hard from the fighting, from the kissing, from the  _everything_  that was—Cas, Cas,  _Cas_ —gripping him, squeezing him tight, gliding wet lips over the top of Dean’s cock, and slowly sliding down.


	12. Despair

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The things we do.

The room was standing still, and the blood roared as it flew through Dean’s ears. Castiel’s cheeks hollowed out as he drew back, his lips billowing around the tip of Dean’s cock as he drove a tongue deep against the slit. Dean shuddered and hissed, something guttural working its way out from the back of his throat, his mouth forming the air into the semblance of a word: “Cas…”

No response was given. Castiel simply straightened his back, changing his angle. With one hand he curled and twisted his fingers around the shaft, and with the other he squeezed his palm against Dean’s upper thigh, balancing himself as he bobbed his head slowly up and down.

The restaurant was completely silent, so that every single obscene, lascivious sound Cas was making, and every single whimper and moan Dean issued in response, echoed graphically in Dean’s ears. He stared down at Cas, trying hard to keep his eyes open and watch him, to take in every second of this glorious fucking moment. Cas was sending shivers down to the pool of nerves in his spine—he seemed intent on learning every trick that made Dean sigh or made his legs quiver—Cas was  _amazing_ , and Dean closed his eyes on instinct. He bit and licked his lips, trying so hard to control his hips and not to thrust into Cas’s mouth.

“Cas,” he moaned, staring down at the top of the ducked black head. Castiel worked his business fervently, speeding up and causing Dean’s breath to hitch in his belly. “ _Cas_ …” he said again, this time trying to make it clearer that he wanted a response. He needed to see Cas’s face, his eyes: he needed Cas to look up.

And then he did—for a very, split second, their eyes connected—before Castiel returned his gaze to the ground. Dean groaned and worked his fingers into Castiel’s hair, about to voice a protest, when Cas suddenly dropped lower, swallowing Dean whole.

Dean felt the space in the back of Cas’s throat, then he felt it fall away, and the minuscule part of his brain that had still remained sane vanished completely, its dying thought the realization that Cas was deep throating him. No one had ever done that to him before, and every single thing was pleasure and insanity.

Dean’s head fell backwards—he could hear himself muttering things that made no sense, saying the word “fuck” a lot. He buried his fingers fast against Cas’s skull, doing everything he could not to direct him, and again, not to thrust, not to thrust, don’t fucking thrust.

Cas sputtered around him for a moment, and Dean’s eyes snapped open. He loosened his fingers, ready to let Cas take a break, relax, calm down—let Cas’s throat do what throats were  _supposed_  to do, which was not to choke around large objects. Dean tilted his head down and opened his mouth to speak, but he didn’t get the chance. Without skipping a beat, Castiel swallowed and continued.

Dean stared at him, watching him,  _feeling_  him, wondering why the hell he wouldn’t look up, wondering how the hell it was possible for something to feel this fucking good, why wouldn’t Cas look at him, this felt so fucking good, holy shit,  _holy shit_ …

Holy shit.

“Cas—!” He spoke loudly, his voice tight and constrained. “I’m gonna—”

Castiel pulled up slightly, resettling Dean inside his mouth and returning his hands; he didn’t stop. He worked like a machine, and Dean faltered, a small consciousness thinking Cas may have not heard him. He spoke again, his face contorting on its own and his jaw running away from him, “Cas, I’m…”

And he did. He came at one hundred miles an hour. His hips thrust up, and one of his hands slipped to Castiel’s shoulder, his fingers locking themselves there. He poured into Cas’s mouth, eyes screwed shut and voice lost to silence. When the world pieced itself back together again, Dean exhaled violently, relaxing his hands, relaxing his hips, feeling Castiel pull lazily at him, having drunk in every last bit of cum and still supping for more.

Dean panted, shaking, feeling the cold exposure as Cas finally slipped away from him. Through half-shut eyes, Dean looked down at Cas. Somehow, even with his hair askew and twisted, Castiel still looked composed, only mildly flushed and unkempt. Dean did not understand; he stared at him, feeling a dull tingle as Cas gently placed Dean’s softening penis back within the binds of his boxers, and zipped up his jeans slowly. He didn’t look at Dean; he stood up, using Dean’s knees as a brace, then leaned over and kissed him.

Dean responded instantly and wildly, tasting himself on Cas and not really enjoying the flavor, but that didn’t matter—he kissed Cas and grabbed his tie, tugging him down and down, kissing clumsily and off-kilter because he barely had control over his own body. He needed to kiss him, to show him how amazing that was, to kiss and touch him, to give him something in return, to—

Cas pulled away. “I’m going outside to change the sign.”

Dean stopped. Cas had already disappeared from view. Dean craned his head around, his brows furrowed together, watching as Castiel grabbed his coat and slipped outside.

Dean blinked a few times, suddenly conscious of how low he had sunk in the chair. He slowly sat up, his eyebrows sinking deeper and his mouth settling itself into a frown. He looked around at the bright room, at the tables…

The bell above the door clanged gently, and Dean’s head whirled around as Cas walked back in. “Done.”

Dean felt himself speak, his voice an alarming echo in the vast, empty space. “What’s done?”

“The sign.” Castiel walked over to the bar, where he had set his phone just minutes earlier. He flipped through its touch screen. “Bobby texted; the sign at the bottom of the hill is taken care of as well.”

Dean didn’t say anything. He felt like he was traveling through time, or dreaming everything that happened. He opened his mouth to speak, but his jaw hung there, at a loss. He listened as Castiel’s fingers typed rapidly, faster than any normal human should be able to type. Cas nodded his head absently. “Letting Jason, Dana, and Margaret know not to come in.” He laughed to himself. “Should probably also tell Jason to be upfront about potential snowfall. Don’t you think?”

It took Dean a moment to realize this question was prompted at him. Cas hadn’t even looked up, he just kept typing. Dean shook his head. “What the hell was that.”

Cas inclined his head, his eyes still glued to the screen of his phone. “What the hell was what?”

Dean stared at him, waiting, refusing to speak until Castiel made eye-contact, which did eventually happen. He clicked his phone off and looked up at Dean, blatantly casual and impossible to read. Dean blinked at him. “Are we having sex now?”

Castiel raised an eyebrow, then suddenly burst out laughing. The sound of it was bizarre. He shook his head and tucked his phone into his pocket. “Dean, I gave you a blow-job.”

Dean frowned deeper. “And that’s not sex?”

Again, Castiel laughed dryly, rolling his eyes and stepping away from the bar, starting the process of shutting the restaurant down. “Is there anything else I should do in here before the snow comes?”

He flicked the main lights off, leaving just a dull yellow glow from a few floor lamps and the fluorescent light beaming in from the kitchen. He walked around to the inside of the bar, and Dean heard the click of the power strip being turned off. Dean mumbled, “Pipes, but I’ll get that…” He slowly stood, watching as Cas moved behind the counter. “The sink—turn it on to a drip.”

Castiel looked at him, a weird, almost manufactured smile hovering about his lips. “Won’t that waste water?”

“A  _drip_ , Cas. We don’t want the pipes to freeze.”

Castiel shook his head. “Never been through one of these before. Exciting, don’t you think?”

Dean stared at him, a deep crease working its way between his eyebrows. “Not really.” He stopped. “So we’re having sex now.”

Cas sighed heavily, his shoulders slumping. Slowly, he dragged his head upright to make eye-contact with Dean. “Dean, it is what it is.”

“And what  _is_  it?”

“Look, if you didn’t like it, I won’t do it again.”

“That’s not what I said—”

“So you did like it.”

Castiel was staring at him flatly, his eyes completely blank as he waited for Dean to reply. Eventually, Dean threw up his hands. “I don’t know what I’m supposed to say right now.”

“Yes, I liked it?”

“Ok then: yes, I liked it. It was fucking awesome. Best fucking blow job of my fucking life.”

“Ok then.” Cas finally smiled then, a real, genuine smile that somehow failed to make Dean feel any better. He walked around the bar to stand in front of Dean, tipping himself up on his toes just enough to brush his lips against Dean’s. “So what’s the problem?”

“I don’t… I don’t know.” Dean stared at the back wall. He felt completely stupid, like a three-year-old being told how to ask properly for what he wanted, but he didn’t speak the language. “I guess I’m just confused. I thought…I thought we weren’t having sex.”

“Well, I guess we are.”

“Oh.” Dean closed his jaw, feeling Castiel’s eyes on him but unable to meet them. There was such a feeling of  _wrongness_  surrounding him, but Dean couldn’t figure out what it was or why it was. Perhaps his brain was just so fucked out that he wasn’t reading anything correctly, much less this conversation. Finally, he shrugged. “Ok.”

“Ok.”

He looked down at Cas, savoring the normalcy and comfort in his eyes. He leaned down to kiss him, but without warning Castiel whisked away again. “I’ll get the faucets dripping in the kitchen.”

Dean stood there for a moment, hands shoved in his pockets, trying desperately to make the mechanisms in his brain work and explain everything to him, when he realized there was actually something he had to do: prepare for the storm. He walked quickly over to his coat, putting it on as he made his way through the kitchen. Leaning down, he searched through the cabinets to find the foam padding he and Bobby had measured and cut earlier that year. Pulling out a roll of duct tape from a counter drawer, he glanced up and saw Castiel adjust the faucet handles with an almost obsessive accuracy. Dean rolled his eyes as he stepped outside. “Doesn’t have to be exact, Cas.”

“Yes, it does,” he heard just before the door closed.

The pipes well wrapped, Dean returned through the back door, Castiel still fidgeting with the water. “Dude.”

Castiel did not respond, and after a moment he finally seemed satisfied. He stood back and looked at Dean, who shook his head. “Obsess much?”

“I don’t want to waste water, Dean.”

“Ok Mother Earth, got it.” Dean could hear how harsh his voice sounded, and he wasn’t really sure he wanted to control it. He turned and locked the door behind him, fishing through the drawer of clean towels and rolling one up, shoving it against the gap under the door. “By the way, snow-virgin: you’ll want to get out of the house for this.”

“For what?”

“You really think it’s a good idea staying up in your house with a blizzard coming?”

“Didn’t people do it for years?”

“Yeah, before they had a choice.” Dean stood up, turning around to see that Cas was, once again, fiddling with the faucet. “Jesus Christ…” He stormed over to it, brushing Cas’s hand away and fixing it to a steady drip.

“That’s too much, Dean—!”

“It’s  _fine_. Anyway.” He sighed heavily, turning to lean against the sink. “You won’t be able to leave the house to get anything. I mean anything. Could be for a few days, a week maybe. You’ll probably lose power.”

Castiel’s brows furrowed, suddenly distracted enough to stop watching the water dripping from the faucet behind Dean’s back. “The generator.”

Dean shrugged. “We never got one.”

Castiel hung his head, burying it in his hands. “I forgot. I completely forgot about it.” He looked back up, clearly devastated. “What about the frozen pie goods we have here?”

Dean watched him carefully. “Well, we could put them out in the snow. But no one’s going to be up here to get to the place.” He placed a hand gently on Castiel’s shoulder. “It’s just part of life up here, ok?”

“I could do it, Dean. I’m going to stay here.”

“No, you’re not. You’re completely unprepared.”

“And just where  _would_  I stay, with you?”

Cas said it quickly and defensively, throwing the words out with haphazard intention, but he had spoken aloud what Dean was already thinking. Dean felt his neck grow warm and his heart rate increase, and he dropped his arm self-consciously. “You could.”

“Dean, I’m not staying with you.”

“Why not?” He felt like the blood was rushing straight past his head. Cas, staying with him, sharing a bed with him…

“Dean…’ Castiel sighed. “I just don’t want to… I don’t want to stay in your apartment.”

The joy and terror of the moment before settled into something dull, thudding into Dean’s chest and staying there. Quite suddenly, Dean did not want to stand so near Castiel anymore. “I see.” He walked away from the cabinets and back through the kitchen door, out onto the main floor. “Didn’t realize my apartment wasn’t good enough for you.”

“Dean—” Castiel followed him, watching as Dean stalked to each and every window and closed the curtains tight to help keep in the heat. “It’s not that I don’t like it.”

“Oh yeah, definitely not that.”

“I just… can’t you afford something nicer by now? Am I not paying you enough?”

Dean stopped in place, his eyes wide and staring at the floor.

“Wow, Cas. Thank you.”

Castiel stopped, gnawing on his lower lip. “Dean, I didn’t—”

“I signed a contract, Cas. I have six months left.”

“No, I understand that, I just…”

Dean brushed past him, making his way to the cash register, shutting down the power and flicking the lights off in the kitchen. His head was hurting, and right now arguing with Castiel about anything else tonight was going to push him over the edge. He flipped open the AC and Heating control panel on the wall and dialed it down, thinking how much he just wanted to go to bed. Even if he was alone in his stupid, shitty, not-good-enough apartment on his stupid, shitty, not-good-enough bed. Then, Castiel spoke quietly.

“You could stay with me.”

Dean froze, his eyes focusing on the number 55 that glowed through the dark. He heard Castiel speak again.

“It’s not as though I don’t have enough room. And I really don’t know much about blizzards, as you’ve said.” He gave a small, hesitant, and beautiful laugh. It spoke of apology, and it felt like the truest thing Castiel had done all evening. That alone made Dean turn around and face him, watching carefully as he said, “I can’t even turn on faucets correctly.”

Dean blinked at him, slowly. “We’d be trapped up there Cas. We couldn’t even go out and get a burger.” He raised an eyebrow. “Which is probably more torture for me, but…”

“I know that.” Castiel paused. “Will you stay?” When Dean hesitated, Castiel locked eyes onto his and said very seriously. “I would hate to not see you for a week, just because of snow.”

Dean felt the corners of his mouth rise and his cheeks grow warm. “Well,” he said, finally. “Ok.”

“Ok.”

They looked at each other for a moment, then Dean crossed to join Castiel in the middle of the room and kissed him softly, before they turned and walked to the door. Castiel paused to set the alarm, and Dean tightened his own coat around himself, then reached over and lifted Cas’s collar against the cold. The beeps counted to 60, and they locked the door behind them.

It was only after Dean walked Castiel to his car, kissed him briefly goodnight, and drove home in the dark, that he was finally able to process what was happening. He should have been ecstatic about staying at Castiel’s. Nervous, yes, but excited. And had nothing else happened between them tonight but some kissing and meek fondling, he would have been. But something else had happened. Something fundamental had changed, and Dean couldn’t begin to understand it at all.

His stomach was churning. Dean did not understand how they could go from sex, to fighting, to love in under fifteen minutes, and he still couldn’t begin to fathom how sex had even entered into the equation at all. All those wild kisses in the month before, all those burning fingers and caresses—Dean had never thought Castiel would do what he did. And when questioned, Castiel had explained nothing to him as if it were everything. Dean  _still_ couldn’t find the words to explain why, even after he had come like a fucking sky-rocket in goddamn flight, he somehow felt empty.

And he would be going back up to Cas’s tomorrow and staying with him. He was going to have to pack a bag and explain to Sammy where he would be. He would be staying with Castiel, in his home, watching the snow fall, sleeping on his bed…

Jesus Christ, were they really sleeping together now? Were they really having sex?

Castiel had laughed at him, as if Castiel had somehow recategorized blow jobs as something apart and different and Dean’s way of thinking was archaic. But sex was, as far as Dean had known it, about two people connecting and sharing something. Dean knew what sex was like when it wasn’t connected—he’d had enough one night stands to know that feeling exactly.

Castiel hadn’t even paused to ask Dean if he’d been tested—that kind of conversation hadn’t come up before, because Dean had not thought there would be a reason for it. Dean knew he was clean, but  _Castiel_  didn’t know that, and he  _still_  didn’t know that. It gnawed at Dean the rest of the drive to think that Castiel did not have that assurance, that Cas might think of it later tonight and worry about it… Dean would text him when he got home. He’d text him that everything was going to be ok.

But after he snuck in quietly, careful not to disturb the sleeping Sam curled up on the couch, he lay fully clothed on top of his bed, flipped open his phone, and he suddenly felt unable to send a text about it at all. He didn’t even want to acknowledge the fact that what had happened  _happened_.

Castiel was right. That wasn’t sex. It wasn’t sex at all. It felt like Castiel was some kind of prostitute doing his fucking job; Dean didn’t feel like they had shared anything except his body. And he once again circled back to the question:  _Why_? Why was Castiel doing this?

Dean clicked his jaw. Maybe this was just a one time thing; maybe Castiel’s bizarre attitude was just linked to his stress about the snowfall. In either case, Dean knew that the talk he had feared having to have at all was now completely necessary. And they couldn’t have picked a worse time for a heavy conversation; if things went wrong tomorrow, if things got messed up and they hated each other, there would be fucking nowhere to go. Blizzards pretty much definitively sealed one in with their company.

A part of Dean wanted to back out. His fingers poised over the buttons, mentally telling Castiel that maybe he should find a hotel instead, that Dean didn’t feel comfortable leaving Sam on his own—he formulated lie after lie after lie, but he didn’t type out a one. Instead, he shut his eyes, covering them with his wrist. He didn’t want to tell Cas no.

It wasn’t even a matter of guilt—when Dean thought about being cut off from him like that, concerned about his little snow virgin buried away without power or resources… Castiel might have a proper heart attack if he didn’t have access to his wireless anymore.

And Dean didn’t want to not see Castiel for what could be a week. Whatever was going to happen between them tomorrow, Dean still, stupidly, wanted to be able to see him.

Dean rolled over, upset to his very core. He would talk to Cas. If Castiel started something, if tonight began to repeat itself in the coming week, they would talk. Or, at the very least, he would fucking touch him back. Dean felt his eyes flutter open, his breath catching in his lips. That’s what was missing, he thought. Not just the connection, but the reciprocation. His hand in Castiel’s, their mouths together, kissing, connecting, making goddamn love like it should be made…

If Castiel really wanted to start this, then he was going to have to understand: if he made a move on Dean, then by God Dean was going to reciprocate. He was going to hold him, kiss him, look him in the goddamn eyes, and touch him back.

——————————————

Overall, explaining things to Sam was easier than Dean had expected. Perhaps that was because Sam conveniently broached the topic that morning over coffee. He had looked up at his brother seriously. “So, I talked to Bobby, and—you know about the blizzard, right?”

“Yeah, I do.”

“Well Bobby called me last night, said you and I could come stay with him to ride it out.”

Dean nodded slowly, trying to sound nonchalant as he asked, “What did you tell him?”

“Said I’d talk to you.”

“Oh. Well, I…” Dean trailed off. “What are  _you_  going to do?”

Sam shrugged. “I’d rather lose power at Bobby’s than here. I mean, at least he’s got a fireplace.”

“Okay…” Dean nodded thoughtfully, and Sam laughed a little.

“Surprised Jody’s not staying with him. Think he’s a little put-out about that.”

“Really?”

“She just wants to make sure everything’s fine at her place. But still. Probably why Bobby asked us, he was gonna get lonely.” Sam grinned. “So, you coming?”

“Um…” Dean swallowed, because the time to say something was clearly presenting itself, waiting for Dean to catch up. He cleared his throat. “I’m thinking I’ll be someplace else, actually. Probably’s Cas’s, so… that’s where I’ll be.”

Dean studied the pattern of the table and avoided Sam’s eyes, hearing with growing embarrassment the smile in Sam’s voice. “Oh really? Staying with Cas?”

“Well you know, he’s never been through a storm like this, and the house is old so, you know, I thought I’d bring some books over or something.”

“Yeah sure. Books. That’s a good idea.”

Dean sighed, frustrated and flustered. “I’ve got reading to do.”

Sam narrowed his eyes at him, a soft smirk playing on his lips. “What, exactly,” he paused, “Is reading a euphemism for?”

“ _Reading_. Reading is for reading, there is no euphemism.” And Dean got up and stalked away to his room, throwing jeans and shirts and underwear haphazardly into a suitcase. His eyes alighted on a few books stacked on his dresser. He actually intended to read them eventually, so he threw them into the bag with extra vigor. He probably  _would_  read them at some point this week, shows what Sam knew.

The last book he tossed into his bag a touch more calmly, and by the time he zipped the bag up, he was sane enough to remember he should pack a toothbrush, toothpaste, candles, matches, batteries—anything he had that they might need. And after five minutes, his mind had cooled. He pulled his phone charger from the wall, circling the cord around his hand, breathing slow and deep. Tucking it into his pocket, he stepped out into the living room, where Sam was folding up the blankets that he slept under. Dean took a deep breath.

“We’re dating.”

Sam froze momentarily, then resumed his actions, smiling down at the couch. “Kinda figured. How long?”

“About a month.” He held up a hand. “I’m sorry I didn’t tell you, I just… didn’t really know how.”

“It’s ok.” He hesitated. “You’re dating?

“Yeah.”

“Ok,” Sam said, turning to look at his brother, a wry smile tugging at his lips. “Congrats.”

“Shut up.” Dean said, and halfway out the door, he tossed a meaningful took over his shoulder. “You take care.”

Sam returned the look, his eyes warm. “You too.”

Dean closed the door, the conversation with Sam easing the fears in his heart, the worming knot that still worked its way in Dean’s stomach. It was good to know that Sam was taken care of. Even better to feel the huge weight lift off his chest, because Sam knew now, and Sam was fine with it. Of course Sam was fine with it, but still—the words had been said. Dean climbed the hill to the orchard with a new boldness, a new comfort. Sam was rooting for him; Sam was rooting for  _them_.

Dean arrived at the house shortly before noon. Castiel appeared at the door, smiling widely, and they clapped their arms around each other on the porch, Dean dropping his bag at their feet with a loud thump. Castiel leaned back, his eyes wide, hands gripping Dean’s shoulders. “Did you pack enough in there?”

“I brought some books. And batteries and things.” He grinned. “Soap too. Figured you might like me better if I smelled good.”

Castiel leaned forward and kissed him chastely. “Very thoughtful, thank you.”

He leaned down and grabbed Dean’s bag for him, leading the way inside. Dean hesitated before he followed, a sudden trepidation seizing his ribs and closing them like iron. He shut the door behind him with a heavy awareness that there was no turning back now. He watched as Castiel took his bag upstairs and dropped it into the bedroom.

Three hours later, the snow began to fall.

Dean and Cas stood together at the window; the gray clouds swirled in from the north-west, and the flurries blurred together in a faster and faster dance, growing larger and larger and larger. The Impala was safely squeezed into the space near Castiel’s car in the garage, and so the two of them looked out beyond the porch into the blank space of browned grass, the dark wood of the orchard swallowing itself up in white.

Dean watched Castiel and chuckled softly. Cas’s face lit up with fascination, like he had never seen snow fall before at all, which it turns out he hadn’t, not really. A few freak flurries now and then in San Francisco, but that had been the sum total of Cas’s experience. Dean’s eyes flicked up and down Castiel’s profile as Cas leaned across the couch to get a better look out the window. Reaching out a hand, Dean looped it around Castiel’s waist and drew him in, resting their heads together.

Everything was lovely and peaceful; everything was perfect. In this moment, in this space, warm and happy, Dean questioned any concerns, small or large, he had had in coming here. They seemed insignificant, unimportant. Not worth losing any sleep over the night before, and certainly not worth staying away.

In the next hours, they nestled together on the couch, passing the time languidly in each other’s arms, basking in the glow of the fire, feeling so much warmth between the two of them, cuddled together under a blanket, that they barely noticed the sky turn almost pitch black with the weight of the snow, and they did not see how drastically the snow had risen.

The radiator popped and hissed beneath the window. Dean shivered, realizing that he had fallen asleep against the top of Castiel’s head. He shifted; the clock was about to strike eight. He rose to look out the window, staring out into the dead of night, barely able to see that the snow was still falling. He pulled the curtains shut, opening up the radiator as much as he could. The lamp on the side-table glowed softly—they still had power, for now.

Checking the rest of the windows and curtains, Dean finally returned to Castiel, intending to nudge him awake and suggest pajamas and an early night, or perhaps to simply slide back within the circle of his arms and pull him closer, when he stopped short. Cas’s eyes were open—they were vivid, liquid, and heavy—triggering something within Dean that worked a finger deep into his pelvis and yanked. His lips parted anxiously, and his tongue flicked out to lick them.

“I’m cold.” Castiel said.

Dean hesitated. “It is cold.”

“Then maybe we should keep warm.” He extended a hand to Dean, and drew him, wordless, back in.

Dean’s heart was pounding. A mantra ran through his head at lightning speed: he was ready for this. Whatever happened, he was ready now. And Castiel was inviting him. Castiel, like a siren, drew him in, tossed the blanket around Dean’s shoulders, and parted his lips with such clear desire that Dean felt mad almost instantly.

They moaned together, fingers melding into necks and shoulders as Dean settled himself onto the couch, feeling Cas notch his legs around him, close but still too far. Castiel’s mouth was open and heady and breathing, working its way against Dean’s cheeks and jaw, his tongue delving into Dean’s ear, bringing up vivid flashbacks of just what Castiel could do and had done with that tongue. Dean grunted, almost shaking his head, pulling himself back around to find Castiel’s mouth and trail kisses, mirroring Cas, trailing over stubble and cheekbone and—

Castiel pulled back, a wicked smile flickering across his face. Placing a hand on Dean’s chest, he pressed, leaning Dean back and back, letting his hand slide to Dean’s belt buckle.

Dean dropped to his elbows, bracing himself. He laid his head back for a moment as Castiel rubbed him through his jeans, encouraging his growing erection, kissing it through the fabric, such a tantalizing promise that Dean could barely keep himself together.

He twisted his fingers into the fabric of Castiel’s shirt and tugged him suddenly back up, finding Cas’s mouth with his own. Clearly taken by surprise, Castiel lost his balance and fell on top of Dean. He struggled for a moment, kissing Dean back briefly before pulling away again, trying to return to his previous task.

Dean sat up quickly, his hands finding Castiel’s chin and returning their mouths. He trailed a hand down Castiel’s back, searching for him, trying to grab at his ass and pull him close once more, when Castiel sputtered away. He knocked Dean’s hand aside, panting, staring down into the dark. “What are you doing.”

“Cas…” Dean leaned in, nuzzling his head into Castiel’s neck, his lips working their way up. “I want you…”

“And what the hell do you think I’m doing?” Cas disappeared, again fixated on Dean’s erection, his fingers popping open the belt buckle and top button of Dean’s jeans, almost violently. Dean groaned; he tugged Castiel’s shirt out from his pants, lifting it up, palming his back, his abs, working his fingers up to Castiel’s nipples and—

“Dean,  _stop_!” Cas snapped, ripping himself back from Dean. He sat up on his knees, breathing heavily, his nostrils flaring; he did not look at Dean.

Dean’s chest heaved. He stared open-mouthed, then returned his hands to Castiel’s sides. “Come on Cas, let me—” Castiel shoved his hands away, and Dean spoke louder, angrier. “Let me fucking touch you!”

“No, Dean.”

Dean’s mouth flubbed. “Oh what, so you can suck my dick, but I can’t touch you?”

“Dean, will you just—”

Mouth worked into an aggressive frown, Dean thrust his hand forward and grabbed at Castiel’s crotch. He worked his hand there for a brief moment before Castiel, biting down hard on his lower lip, was able to shove him away. Dean growled at him. “You’re fucking _hard_ , Cas.”

“So what.”

“So what? So  _what_? Cas, you’re  _hard—_ ”

“SO. WHAT.” Castiel stood up, the blanket that had encompassed them so lovingly moments before crumpled to the ground around his feet. “I don’t care!”

“Well I fucking care! I fucking care whether you get off or not, if you’re involved or not—”

“Dean, just don’t. You do  _not_  understand—”

“Yeah no fucking shit I don’t understand! Jesus Christ—”

Desperation grabbed at him—a totally wild drive and direction seized control—and Dean stood, shoving his mouth against Castiel’s and reaching his hand down, feeling how hard Castiel was and rubbing against it, reaching his other hand around to clasp his ass—his fingers grasped so tightly, roughly—when Castiel slammed Dean down and away.

Dean fell backwards, hitting the edge of the couch, catching himself roughly on his wrist and wincing. He looked up at Castiel, whose shoulders and hands shook violently.

The same desperation, the same desire for understanding and that same need and want, twisted within Dean now in a completely new way, taking his heart and wrenching it, shredding it to a million pieces while Dean sat helpless in the wreckage. He stared up at Castiel, unable to speak, unable to utter a single word or apology because his voice was lost, cracked and empty.

Castiel disappeared. Dean heard his feet storm up the stairs, then two seconds later he appeared at the railing. Heaving his arm back, Castiel threw a pillow at Dean violently, then tossed a blanket down like an afterthought. Dean ducked his head, and the pillow ricocheted off the couch behind him as the blanket pooled at the bottom of the stairs, opening and floating downward like a broken parachute.

Dean blinked up into Castiel’s eyes, almost unbearable to meet in their fury. He was closed off, shut down, and Dean could not begin to fathom what to say to him, how to say anything to him to make it better, he needed so badly to make it better, to fix it.

And then Castiel spoke. His voice was cold and unfeeling, and it chilled Dean down to his very core.

“Goodnight, Dean.”

He disappeared up the stairs again. The door slammed behind him. Dean was alone.


	13. Smell, Taste, See, Touch, Hear

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Naked and exposed.

Dean did not sleep. He tossed and turned, his eyes shut fast in an attempt at rest. He awoke too easily with the dawn and realized with dread that another day was upon him. It solidified the events of last night so completely in his mind. In the dark he could pretend it was a dream. In the dark, he could lay and pretend and imagine the perfect things he could say; he could imagine that he had never touched Castiel against his will; he could imagine that he had spoken up when he should have, and not avoided the conversation that might have kept last night from happening. But light filtered in through the window, and reality was inescapable.

Dean shivered. The two blankets he had huddled under had hardly been enough coverage, and he had been too distraught to pay the fire any mind through the night, so it had died away. Beneath the gray ashes, a few embers still sizzled and popped occasionally, sending out wild sparks into the metal grating; an S.O.S. on a sinking and unheeded ship. Dean pulled the blankets tighter around him and shoved his face into the pillow. The pillow smelled like Cas. The whole place smelled like Cas.

Dean refused to move.

An hour later, his shoulder hurt. His wrist hurt from where he had fallen on it, his stomach hurt as well, and he had to pee. But going to the restroom meant taking a trip upstairs. Upstairs, near the door Castiel slept behind.

Eventually there was no more delaying it. Dean, treading carefully in his socks, toed up the stairs, wincing as they creaked loudly beneath his feet. He did manage to shut the bathroom door perfectly quietly, but when he had relieved himself, he stared down into the bowl and realized he would have to flush, and flushing made noise.

Dean plugged his ears, as if his hearing being dampened meant that Castiel would hear it quieter as well. Dean leaned down and flushed the toilet with an elbow, grimacing as the pipes groaned in response. Well, Cas had to hear that.

Dean washed up, making certain to leave the tap still running slightly to prevent the pipe from freezing. He hesitated. He expected to walk outside and see Castiel’s bedroom door standing open, or to hear him down the stairs. Or worse, come face to face with him and exchange an awkward dance in the threshold of the restroom, trying to move out of each other’s way while neither of them spoke. They definitely would not speak. Talking was what they  _should_  do, but Dean couldn’t imagine doing it at all because he didn’t feel like any words he had were big enough.

He took a deep breath and turned the doorknob; Castiel’s door was still closed. Dean stared at it for a moment before crossing the hall and returning down the stairs. Last night, he had thought so many times of coming up to that door, knocking on it, saying something that might let Castiel forgive him, even if Dean did not forgive himself. Even if he didn’t understand half of what had actually happened last night. Which he still didn’t, though he had spent hours painfully reliving it and trying, trying,  _trying_  to process it.

Dean stood in the foyer, his feet freezing against the wooden floor. Any extra clothing he had was tucked away in his bag, which was still in Castiel’s room, untouched since its first arrival. Dean worked anxiously at his fingers, glancing at his boots and his winter coat that was mercifully hanging nearby. He shuffled into them and looked out the window, longing for the outside escape from this torture, when he suddenly and finally realized just how high the snow was. His jaw dropped. It was piled over the porch steps--well over them, in fact. Weathermen were completely useless--while it may have snowed two feet in town, Dean would not have been surprised if the snowfall on their hill measured four feet. 

He fished his gloves out from his coat pocket and pulled them on, zipping up his coat clumsily. He couldn’t go outside. He shouldn’t go outside. But of course that was all he wanted to do. Restless, he walked around to the kitchen, catching sight of the thermometer on the window and noting, with no great surprise, that it read 15 degrees. He glanced behind him to the mudroom, seeing a spare, wool, winter hat on a peg, and a snow shovel standing by the side-door.

Dean had forgot he had put the shovel there yesterday afternoon; he had planned ahead for this. A smile dimly crossed his lips. Taking the fur-lined cap, he fitted it across his ears, grabbed the shovel, and opened the door into the biting cold. What he was wearing wouldn’t protect him well, but it didn’t matter--he would be warm soon enough.

\----------------------------

Dean had to check his watch to see how much time had passed. The sun was definitely higher in the sky, but it was still cold, cold, and more cold. He was blinded by a sea of white from which stygian spectres emerged, their branches frozen and empty of life. The wind was merciless against him, dropping the temperature with each gust. He had felt fine enough while he was moving, but now that he sat atop the tractor the weather seemed so much worse.

He glanced behind him. He had maybe gone a total of thirty feet past the first line of the trees--almost seventy feet when he included the distance from the garage to the road, but that did not make much difference. The snow was just too high, and the wide snow-plow--one of the many attachments for the tractor that Dean had been most excited about trying out--couldn’t clear away the snow fast enough. It kept piling up and sticking to the metal, even though Dean had greased it properly before setting out. He had to climb down from the tractor seat and hack away the snow build-up with the snow shovel he’d taken with him as a precaution, with no inkling how necessary it would become.

He had just climbed back up into the seat for the untoldth time, about to shift the gear into drive, when something made him stop. A feeling at the base of his gut, in his spine. Perhaps he had seen him out of the corner of his eye, but Dean knew that when he would turn around, he would see Castiel making his way down the newly cleared road.

So Dean did turn, and so he saw the lone, dark figure approaching him slowly, hands in his pockets, shoulders bunched around his neck. All too soon, Dean could make out the details of his face, and then Castiel was there, standing next to the tractor. They looked everywhere but at each other; they said nothing. And when Dean slowly turned his hand at the key to turn the tractor off, a deafening silence fell through the air that not even the wind bothered to disturb.

The long quiet dug in its feet, thriving in the cold, when finally, Castiel spoke. “Are you leaving then?”

Dean hesitated, staring at the mist fogging away in spirals from Castiel’s lips. “Do you want me to?”

Castiel took a deep breath, and then finally made eye contact. “I don’t know,” he said honestly. “I just thought...” he shrugged. “It looked as though you were trying to leave...”

Dean licked his lips and shook his head. “I hadn’t planned to.”

“Oh.”

They were silent again, and Dean shivered in his seat. Castiel was wrapped and wrapped in layers, a scarf piled high around his neck, but he didn’t have a hat on. With another shock of guilt, Dean realized he must have taken the only one Castiel owned. “Here,” he said suddenly, removing the cap from his head, his ears and scalp screaming at him with the sudden exposure. “I just grabbed this before I went out--”

“No, Dean, it’s fine--”

“Take it--”

“Keep it, please. I am not that cold.”

Dean’s hand hung poised in the air between them. Castiel’s nose and ears were red, and so much of Dean longed to step down and place the cap on him anyway. But he didn’t feel he had the right to a move that bold anymore, and he was so keen to listen-- to prove how well he could hear and how well he could listen--to Castiel’s wishes that he would have done almost anything requested.

So instead, as a compromise, he tucked the cap into his coat pocket as he swung himself down from the tractor seat, running gloved fingers nervously through his hair.

“You should wear it, Dean--” Castiel began, but Dean cut him off.

“I wasn’t trying to leave, Cas.” He stopped, glancing up to witness the changing features on Castiel’s face, to take in his intense gaze as he listened. Dean spoke again, his foot kicking at the snow absently. “I wasn’t going to leave, but if you want me to, I will.”

Castiel’s voice was quiet. “Where were you going?”

“I dunno...” Dean looked down at the ground. “I was thinking about the pies and how much snow there was, so I thought, maybe I can make it down to the store to save everything, if the power did decide to go. It had...” he hesitated. “It had bothered you, so... I don’t know. I just thought I would try.”

Castiel’s brow deepened, and a sudden, immense sadness filled his eyes as he whispered urgently, softly, “Dean, about last night--”

“Cas, please--”

“I am so sorry.”

Dean’s head snapped up. He felt his heart pumping at a million miles an hour, and he worked at the vicious, painful lump in his throat that threatened to become something worse as he spoke. He stared at Cas, shaking his head. “Castiel, you’re not the one who should be sorry.”

“But, Dean, I--”

“ _I’m_  the one who fucked up.  _I_  should be apologizing to you--and I am!” He rushed through, seeing Castiel about to speak again, afraid of what he might say. “Cas, I fucked up so badly, and I don’t know what I was thinking--I  _wasn’t_  thinking. I’m sorry. I am so, so sorry.”

“Dean... it’s fine.”

“No, it’s not. It is not fine. I never should have--I never  _would_  have--I didn’t know what was happening, and I...I’m sorry.” It felt so small now that he had said it, so unworthy of any forgiveness. He stared at Cas, eyes wide, praying that he believed him, that he understood.

Slowly, Castiel reached a gloved hand out to Dean’s face. He pulled back the flap of wool that kept his fingers wrapped in mittens, so that it was Castiel’s skin that was able to make contact and not the fabric, Castiel’s warmth that Dean clung to and buried his head against.

“Dean, you did not hurt me.”

“That’s not the point,” he said emphatically, his eyes shut. “I could have, and it was  _wrong_.”

“Yes. It was.” Castiel hesitated. “But then again, I was not in the right either.”

Castiel trembled--Dean heard it in his voice, felt it in the fingers that he clutched to his cheek. Dean’s brow furrowed. “We need to get you inside.”

“I’m fine, Dean.”

“You’ve shivering.”

“So are you.”

They looked at each other for a moment, and then, hesitating, Castiel spoke quietly. “Can we finish the road first?”

Gently, Dean nodded and tugged at Castiel’s hands, guiding him around the tractor to stand between the wheels, braced against the frame and Dean’s chair. He climbed up in front of him, turned the tractor back on, and put her into drive.

The first time Dean had to stop, he got down and took the snow shovel with him. Castiel joined him quickly, and with two of them it almost worked faster. Dean didn’t have a second shovel, so they would trade off, hauling away the wet snow with their gloves, soaking their fingers and chilling them to the bone, panting as they heaved each particle away. They worked in silence, seamlessly fighting their way to a goal, a goal that was appearing less and less possible with each passing minute.

By the tenth time they stopped, having traveled only fifty feet together in at least an hour, Dean gave up, collapsing against the snow-covered plow as Castiel leaned on the shovel’s handle. They heaved, exhausted, breath flying away from their mouths in clouds. Dean shivered from the cold, shivered from the sweat trapped beneath his coat. He was freezing and miserable, and as he rolled his head over to look at Cas, he saw that Cas looked exactly how he felt.

“I can’t feel my lips...” Castiel panted, “Or my face at all, actually.”

Dean stood slowly, his legs wobbling beneath him. Reaching into his pocket, he pulled out the hat and fitted it gently around Cas’s head. Dean sighed, peeling the soaking gloves away from his fingers and flexing them, discovering with no great surprise that they felt no different with the wet wool pulled away from them. “Cas, I think we should stop.”

“But...” Castiel’s teeth chattered. “The pies...”

Dean looked at him for a long moment. He was too tired and too cold to pay heed to the caution of his mind, so he grabbed Castiel’s hands and pulled him into his chest, wrapping his arms around him. He felt the man shiver in his embrace. “The road won, Cas,” he whispered warmly, dim recognition winding its way through his freezing mind that Castiel wasn’t pulling away. It almost hurt as he smiled against the numbness in his cheeks.

Castiel shook his head against the wool of Dean’s coat, returning the embrace and burying his head there. “But the pies, Dean... we have to save the pies.”

He had said it so seriously and the moment was so loaded with emotion, that Dean simply could not take the weight anymore; he burst into laughter. “This snow thoroughly kicked our asses man!”

The eventual shake of Castiel’s shoulders against him revealed that he too was laughing, albeit quietly. And when they settled, they stood together for a long moment, gripping each other tightly in the snow. Finally, Castiel spoke, and his voice was tiny and confiding, an almost inaudible whisper. “The road isn’t us, Dean, is it?”

Dean shut his eyes and buried his lips against the fabric of the hat, dragging a hand up to the back of Castiel’s head and cradling it against his shoulder. Castiel spoke again, even quieter than before. “I didn’t screw everything up for us, did I?”

Dean’s eyes snapped open, and he pulled back just enough to look Castiel in the eyes, feeling his teeth chatter against his will as he said darkly, “Did  _I_?”

“No.” Castiel shook his head. “Of course not.” He paused, and they stared at each other. Then Castiel blurted out, almost in a panic. “I don’t know why I won’t let you touch me, Dean, I don’t--I can’t stand the thought of not being enough for you--”

“--What?--”

“--Of not being good enough or--or  _losing_  you--”

“Cas, stop, please--” Dean gave his shoulders a small, gentle shake to change the course, to get his attention. “I am not--Castiel, I am not your old boyfriend.”

“I know you’re not.”

“Then why...” Dean didn’t know what to say, how to phrase his words.

Castiel’s eyes dropped, his voice quivering and low, “Dean...”

The wind screeched between them, a huge gust coming up and almost knocking them off their feet. They needed to be having this conversation inside, by the fire, in the warmth, but it couldn’t stop now. There was no pausing it, and Dean gritted his teeth against the cold, rubbing his hands up and down Castiel’s arms. Cas shook his head, staring down at the ground.

“I don’t know why I’m doing this, Dean. I don’t know why.”

“Cas, I’m not... I’m not Balthy--Bart--whatever his name was,” and Castiel gave a small smile. Dean hesitated, clutching his fingers against Castiel’s shoulders, then pressed on. “I know what it’s like to run--I’ve done it for so long now, I don’t know any way else. But Cas... you’re the first person who’s made me want to stay in a very, very long time. So I’m staying, Cas. I’m here.” He paused, suddenly out of breath. “Ok?”

Castiel’s eyes were deep; still unclear, but determined. He nodded, slowly. “Ok.”

“Ok.” Dean smiled slightly. “Can we fucking go inside now?”

Castiel gave a small laugh, shaking. “Yes please.”

“Not as much fun as you thought it would be, huh, the snow?”

Castiel’s laugh got bigger, and he pulled himself up on the back of the tractor. The ride back was silent again, though this time the silence was less burdened. They trundled their way into the garage, lowered the door, then walked back to the house. Castiel’s hand was tucked neatly into Dean’s as they opened the side door. Hot air flooded over them, breathing into the frigid flesh of their faces as they took off their shoes and coats in the mudroom. Dean was thinking longingly of a shower, of fresh, dry clothes, of a warm fire built up again and glowing in the fireplace--when a loud bang shuddered through the house, and the lights flickered away into nothing.

They lost power.

\-----------------------------

“An electric water heater.”

“It’s environmentally friendly.”

“An  _electric_ , water heater. In  _Vermont_ , Cas.”

“Well, I am grateful you suggested a gas stove to me all those months ago.”

“Yes, aren’t we all."

"We can heat up water and put it in the tub--”

“--That will take  _forever_ , Cas.--”

“--And then we’ll have nice warm baths, alright?”

Dean set his jaw, glaring at Castiel, who was curled up at his feet on the floor, poking at the fire and relighting it with the candle-lighter one more time--the logs weren’t taking well to the flame. Dean narrowed his eyes. “You couldn’t put a gas starter into the fireplace, with all your renovations.”

“Dean,” Cas said frankly, adding some more newspaper to the wood. “Many older fireplaces simply aren’t equipped to handle a gas lighter. And it was highly impractical and too expensive for the moment to fix that.”

“And yet you bought a freaking tractor...”

“That was a gift.” Castiel glanced at him sideways. “One I’m regretting giving at the moment.”

“Well it was pretty fucking useless plowing snow.”

“You shouldn’t have tried plowing it when it was so high.”

Dean’s upper lip curled, and he muttered into the blanket he wrapped tightly around himself. “Like you would know...”

The fire sputtered a bit stronger into life, and Castiel stood, walking round to the kitchen. Dean could hear him pouring water from the tap into one pot after the other, and Dean called out, “Don’t forget to leave the water running--!”

“I  _know_ , Dean.” Castiel poked his head around the corner, his eyes narrowing. “You need another blanket. Or a sweater or something.”

Dean rolled his eyes and heard the clicking of four burners turning on, watching as Castiel appeared in the hallway, walking up the stairs. He returned with a large, thick quilt in his arms, making his way towards Dean to throw it about his shoulders. “You changed out of your wet socks, yes?”

“Obviously.” Dean rolled his eyes again, but when Castiel settled next to him on the couch Dean opened up the blankets without hesitation. It was almost impossible to wrap every quilt around each other without creating some kind of cold gap between them, so Dean laid down, opening his arms and legs and tucking Castiel against him. A small smile fell across his lips. “You’re shivering, Cas.”

“Yes, and?”

“You’re cold.”

“I should think so. It’s already fallen to 50 degrees in the house.”

Dean laughed and wrapped himself even closer. “You are so full of shit--acting like you’re not cold in here--you are fucking  _cold_.”

It was Castiel’s turn to roll his eyes as he burrowed in deeper to Dean. “You were making fun of my house.”

“You’ve made fun of mine before. And, I’m sorry, but Cas: you put in an  _electric_  water heater.”

“Yes, you’ve mentioned that.”

“In Vermont, Cas.”

“Again, Dean, something you’ve already said.” When Dean did nothing but laugh, Castiel pulled back and looked at him. “Fine then, if you were so comfortable here by yourself...”

Dean tightened his arms around him, looking him in the eyes. “Spent enough time here cold and alone, thank you.”

Castiel sighed softly, and he tugged one of the quilts up over their heads, trapping in their heat. The light filtered through, softly glowing red in the fabric. “I was cold upstairs, too.” He paused, and added thoughtfully. “You’d think your ancestors would have designed a fireplace upstairs, or put one in the master bedroom.”

“My ancestors were idiots. Who the hell settles in fucking Vermont.” Castiel laughed gently, and Dean cupped his fingers around Castiel’s cheek, his eyes serious. “I wanted to come upstairs to you. Last night. But I didn’t know what to say.”

Castiel wrapped his socked feet around Dean’s. “Me too. That is, I wanted to come downstairs to you.”

Dean shook his head. “You shouldn’t have.”

“I didn’t.”

“No, I mean--you shouldn’t have been thinking about that. I already told you what I did was wrong. I don’t ever want to hurt you.”

Castiel looked at Dean, then laced his fingers gently around Dean’s wrist, making him wince. “You’ve been favoring your other hand today.” He paused. “Does it hurt much?”

“No.” Dean lied, then he conceded slightly. “It’s already a lot better.”

Castiel shut his eyes and brought the wrist to his lips, kissing it sweetly. He opened his mouth to speak, but didn’t say anything. His eyes opened just slightly, staring down as he ran his fingertips up the exposed skin of Dean’s forearm. It drew goosebumps from Dean, making him shiver pleasantly as he watched. “Cas, I’ve been meaning to tell you--in case you were wondering or something...” He felt himself turn bright red.

“What?”

“I’m clean. Just so you know.”

Castiel’s eyebrows raised. “I had actually assumed as much. Since over a month ago, when we--”

“Yeah, yeah, I know, but I just--I needed you to know that. Like,  _know it_  know it.”

Castiel’s gaze softened, and he pressed at Dean’s fingers, sliding against them tenderly. “I’m clean as well, Dean.” He glanced up with a coy smirk. “Just so you know.”

“Oh, alright then, that’s...” Dean drew a shuddering breath, relief flooding him as that weight lifted from his chest. “That’s good.”

“Dean...” Castiel sighed his name softly, something so sacred about the way he said it that it froze Dean in place, his heart on fire. He slowly resettled his head against the sofa and, humbled by just one word, watched Castiel play with his fingertips as though they were gold, dwelling in the steady thrill of Castiel’s touch.

“Last night, you... You wanted to touch me.”

Dean blinked slowly, looking up at Castiel’s parted lips as he continued.

“But... it was me-- _I_  touched you and shouldn’t have.” Castiel shook his head. “But I--I  _wanted_  to. I wanted to feel you, I wanted to...”

It was hard to breathe; the air was almost oppressive as the carbon dioxide built up in the space between them. But it was dark--it felt safe--and with he and Castiel speaking such secrets Dean feared to disturb it. He watched him carefully before saying, “It was kind of hard to tell. That you were into it.”

“I was.” Castiel said, then adjusted his head. “And then I wasn’t. That’s how it is. I can’t follow through, so I become... less of myself, I guess. I  _did_  want, and I  _didn’t_  want. Do you...” He hesitated. “Do you want?”

Dean couldn’t help the small laugher that escaped from him, though his voice was as sincere as he felt. “Of course I do. But Cas, honestly--I told you I was fine without and I am. Just...”

“What?” Castiel looked up finally.

“Cas, I don’t want you if you don’t want me, ok? That’s not... I’m not okay with that.”

They were silent for a long moment, looking at each other, their eyes darting across each other’s faces. Slowly, Castiel opened up the fingers of Dean’s hand, the hand he had held this whole time, and he laid it across his chest. He stared at Dean meaningfully.

“Touch me, Dean.”

Dean’s eyes snapped up to his, his heart suddenly racing. “Cas, you don’t have to--”

“I want you to--I  _do_  want you.” He took a deep breath, his eyes fluttering shut for a moment. “I want you, Dean.”

Dean flexed his fingers against Castiel’s sweater and pulled himself closer, looking as deeply as he could into his eyes, double checking, triple checking--but Castiel’s gaze was steady, his cheek unblushing, and so Dean closed the distance to his mouth.

He kissed him tentatively, hesitantly, like it was their first kiss--except this time he understood the rhythms, understood Castiel’s mouth like it was his own. His splayed fingers burned, and he dragged them slowly down, slipping his hand back up to its place, this time beneath the sweater and the undershirt. He clutched at the space of Castiel’s chest, dancing his fingers above the beat of his heart.

Castiel didn’t flinch away, and Dean, encouraged, opened his mouth, rolling the tips of their tongues together and hearing the soft moan and sigh in response. He tilted his head, angling himself slightly above Cas to fit better, holding himself up with one elbow and burying fingers in his hair.

Dean let the hand on Castiel’s chest explore, pulling the fabric up higher and sliding down the center line, brushing against his belly, grazing the dark hair just above his waistband and making Castiel’s skin jump in response. Dean pulled away for a second. “Are you ok?” he asked, out of breath.

Castiel nodded, and whispered a  _yes_  in response; Dean returned; he worked the tips of his fingers just under the top of Castiel’s jeans, digging in as he kissed more fiercely. Slightly frustrated at their positions, he re-adjusted to his side, pulling Castiel with him and, placing both hands around and behind, he tugged up against the curve of Castiel’s ass, hearing him gasp.

Touch, Dean thought blindly: touch, touch, touch.  _Feel_. Feeling Castiel like he was a book, getting to know every page, burying his nose against the crook of Castiel’s neck and breathing him in deeply. Cas wrapped a leg around Dean, thumping his knee awkwardly into the couch so Dean scooted forward, running his hand down the length of Castiel’s thigh, squeezing it, feeling the muscles clench beneath him. Castiel was strong, a fucking tower. Dean hooked a finger around an ankle and felt the cold skin beneath his sock, heard Castiel hiss softly against the warmth of Dean’s hands.

Dean didn’t know how far he could take this, or how far he should; so when he dragged his hand back up Castiel’s leg, he pulled away to look him in the eyes. He watched, he stared into him, as he looped his thumb around the top of Cas’s jeans, and tugged down gently.

Cas’s breath hitched in his stomach, and Dean froze, waiting, until Castiel moved his own hand from where it tangled in Dean’s hair, and popped open the button himself.

Dean felt the air catch in his throat. Still watching for assurance, he, with shaking fingers, drew the zipper slowly down. Castiel gave a slight nod, and Dean reached past the jeans to palm him gently through the underwear, not looking away, seeing the small tick of Castiel’s brows as they fell slightly. “You ok?” he whispered.

Castiel closed his eyes, a look of intense concentration on his face. He bit his lip and whispered, “Keep going...”

“Ok...”

Dean tilted down and kissed at his neck, slipping his fingers slowly through the hole of Castiel’s underwear and drew him out, circling him clumsily. He pulled gently on the flaccid flesh and he kissed him, over and over again. Castiel’s lips almost didn’t respond. His eyes fluttered up, a look of deep fear and crushing disappointment flickering on his face. He gave a soft moan, closing his eyes again and dropping his forehead against Dean’s. “Dean...” he said softly.“Dean, nothing’s gonna happen...”

Dean knew the tone of Castiel’s voice; he understood that Cas was giving up, because nothing  _was_  happening. The penis in his grasp remained completely uninterested, and it was only a few seconds later that Castiel reached down to pull Dean’s hand away. He zipped himself up, covered his face with his hands, and rolled over. “I’m so sorry, Dean...”

Dean reached out and tugged Castiel backwards into him, spooning his legs behind him and gently kissing the back of his neck, his ear, lacing his arms around him. Eyes closed tightly, he whispered, “It’s ok, Cas...”

“No, it’s not, it’s... it’s awful.” Dean felt how tense the body was in his arms, felt the small, shaking breaths Castiel was taking. He resettled his arms around Cas and pressed a hand over his heart. He couldn’t exactly tell Castiel  _I know_  because, with a few small exceptions, Dean really did not in any way understand what was happening to Castiel, how frustrating it must have been and clearly was. But he finally felt like he understood why Cas didn’t even want to try, why Castiel was so insistent on Dean’s needs and refused to meet his own: he didn’t have the ability, so he shut down.

Castiel lifted his head and shifted his hips ever so slightly back against Dean’s. He let out a small, unamused laugh and shook his head. Dean’s brow creased. “What?”

“You’re hard.”

Self-consciously, Dean pressed his butt back against the couch, moving it away from Castiel. He shook his head emphatically. “It’s not a big deal.”

And again, the laugh without humor: “Yes, actually, it is.”

Dean grimaced, practically banging his head against the sofa. “What I mean is--”

“I know.” Castiel paused. “Do you want me to--”

“What? No! No, Cas. I just want to hold you, ok? I just want to... lay here with you, and hold you.” He hesitated. “Is that ok?”

“Yes, that’s ok.”

And Castiel sighed, relaxing ever so slightly back into Dean, though his shoulders were still tense and his breath still shallow. Dean did his best to assure him, to show him through touch, through perfect, blissful touch, the touch that he was now allowed, how fine he was, how happy he was to be here, with Castiel, in this place, regardless of their sex-life.

And after a few minutes, it worked. After a few minutes they lay against each other, and Castiel laced his fingers through Dean’s and took a deep breath, sighing out contentedly. And then they heard the sound of the water in the kitchen finally coming to a boil, and their moment was done.

\------------------------------

Heaving the boiling pots carefully up the stairs, Dean and Castiel poured three of them, one by one, into the bathtub. Castiel leaned down and turned on the water faucet to full, running it as hot as he could before it turned to cold, which only lasted for a few minutes. Even with the extra water being added, it hardly looked like enough bath to be worth the effort of creating a second time. What hadn’t been discussed before was now apparent to both of them.

“I can skip a bath, Cas. Take one tomorrow or something.”

“Don’t be ridiculous. We can take one together.”

And so they did. They stripped down together wordlessly, a heavy awareness settling over Dean that they had never seen each other naked, they had never seen each other that exposed, and suddenly there they were. Dean’s eyes flitted over, catching at the curve of Castiel’s back meeting his ass, his legs. Dean tried hard not to stare at him, tried to fight the stupid astonishment firing in his brain, telling him repeatedly that Castiel was a  _man_ \--of course he was. They’d pressed their cocks together and Dean had cupped at his flat chest; Dean  _knew_  this information. But here he was, seeing him, and it was somehow different. He remembered touching all of those parts on the sofa downstairs, remembered the way they felt--he couldn’t help his gaze as he tried to memorize them now in a different light.

Castiel turned around to discover Dean staring, jaw dropped slightly, and he blushed. “Are you going to get in?”

“Yeah, I--yes.” Dean felt himself go red as well, and he stepped into the tub a touch too quickly, without pausing to test and realize that the water was too hot. He winced as he heard Castiel step in behind him. “No, wait it’s--”

“Ow, shit--!”

“Yeah...”

“Damn it!”

Castiel jumped out and Dean followed, leaning over to turn on the cold water again. He smirked. “Apparently, we’re going to have to wait a while.”

And Castiel frowned; a miserable, hilarious frown that made Dean bite his lip to keep from laughing, as Castiel shivered and folded his arms tightly to his chest. “But I’m naked and cold...”

“Well then, come here, grumpy.” Dean reached out and tucked Castiel in. The sudden slide of so much skin connecting was like an electric shock. Dean was so aware of everything, and mostly aware of the heat rushing and rising to his cock--his stupid, hopeful cock--that apparently thought now was a good time to make a showing.

Dean backed his hips away slightly, telling it to stop already, as he pulled Castiel’s chest closer to him. Neither one of them said a word, and after a few moments of shivering together, they tested the water, and were finally able to step in.

Dean sat down, his body relaxing happily, acknowledging the heat with pin pricks and sighs-- _this_  was what he had needed since last night. Considering how much work it had been, the payoff was tremendous. He watched Castiel, wondering just how he should settle himself to make room for the both of them, when Castiel solved the question by sitting down between Dean’s legs, leaning back against his chest and sighing out, “Oh my God...  _heat_.”

“Yeah.”

The bathtub was definitely too small for the pair of them combined. Dean sat askew to fit Castiel to him, one leg stretched out along the length of the tub. The water level, which they had thought to be too low before, was now raised up to their shoulders, covering them but for their shoulders and knees, which bent up to allot their legs any room. Castiel giggled gently. “Better not make any big movements. It’s about to overflow.”

“Mmm...” Dean closed his eyes, so fucking warm at last that he couldn’t care about anything else. He wrapped his arms around Castiel’s chest and wished they could submerge themselves completely. Cas sighed, relaxing into Dean. When the small of his back made contact with Dean’s dick, Dean jumped slightly.

“Sorry--”

“Sorry--” they said together. Dean opened his eyes and glared out at nothing, quite suddenly so frustrated it killed him. All they had done and said--had they made any progress at all? Was he even  _allowed_  to be turned on? How could he not be, with so much Castiel, so much velvety skin around him? He leaned his head against the tile, sighing out, irritated.

“What’s wrong?” Castiel asked, throwing a look over his shoulder.

“Nothing, Cas.”

“Dean. You need to tell me what’s wrong.”

“I don’t...” Dean paused, shifting uncomfortably, causing the water to rock and wave over the edges. “I don’t want to get hard if you can’t, you know?”

“Dean, you can’t help that.”

“Yeah, but I mean...” He sighed, unsure of how to explain himself. “It just seems unfair. To you.”

Slowly, Castiel turned himself in Dean’s legs, the bathtub squeaking under him. He wedged himself sideways and dropped his chin onto Dean’s chest, looking up at him. “And now? Are you getting hard?”

Dean felt a questioning hand fall tentatively to his stomach, and he jumped, speaking low through clenched teeth. “I’m trying not to.”

There was a long pause, and Castiel seemed to run the gambit of emotions. He opened his mouth several times to speak, but finally his lips fell into a cautious smile, as he said softly, “Am I really that alluring right now?”

Dean’s brow furrowed, and he made a face. “You’re all naked and stuff, of course you’re--” He gave the final word an impressive, mocking flourish. “ _\--alluring_.” 

“Oh really?” Castiel full-on grinned now, his eyes darkening mischievously.

“I’ve never...” Dean paused, and felt himself blush. “We’d never seen each other naked before.”

“I didn’t realize all it would take to get you going is for us to be nude. You’re very easy, Dean.”

“Dude, come on...”

“Alright then.”

Castiel suddenly backed away. He stood up, causing the water to bounce violently over the edge; Dean blushed a brilliant pink. “What are you doing?”

“I’m being naked in front of you. How are you doing? Can you handle this?”

“Cas, dude, sit down, it’s cold.”

“Yes, it is cold. However, I trust you won’t hold that against me.”

Dean didn’t think it was possible for him to go redder, but he did. “Cas, come on...”

“Now, from the back--” And Castiel turned, rotating on the spot until Dean burst into laughter and covered his eyes, peeking through his fingers. Castiel looked back and gave a completely artificial wink.

“Dude, stop!”

“Are you turned on still?”

“Incredibly, yes.”

Castiel laughed and sat down in the water. He perched himself between Dean’s leg’s. “Your turn.”

“What? No.”

“Come on.”

“I did not sign up for this!”

“Dean--” Cas looked at him seriously, then arched an eyebrow. “It’s only fair.”

So Dean, jaw open, ready to voice some kind of protest, clapped his hands to his knees and stood up, his arms spread wide. “There. You happy?”

“Not quite.” Castiel leaned back luxuriously, settling his head next to the spigot. He lifted a hand with a lazily grin and twirled a finger. “Turn around.”

So Dean did, slowly, feeling himself smile. Castiel laughed wickedly. “That’s quite an ass.”

Dean gave a mock gasp and turned around again. “ _Castiel_.”

“Well, I always thought so, watching you work, serving tables, fixing benches, bending over to pick up apples...”

Dean dropped his jaw and he sat down again in the water, folding his arms and leaning back. “You were my  _boss_. No, wait, you  _are_  my boss.”

“Technically, we’re the same level. I just pay you and tell you what to do.” He grinned cheekily. “Workplace romance.”

“And I fell for it.” Dean bit his lip and smiled, reaching a hand out and touching Castiel’s calf carefully, treading his fingers against the leg hair there, squeezing the muscle beneath. “I fell for a  _guy_.”

Castiel looked across at him, studying him gently. “Congratulations on coming out of the closet.”

“Hey--” Dean looked up. “It’s not  _guys_ , it’s  _guy_ , ok? You.”

Castiel shook his head gently. “Does that make it easier for you, Dean?”

“I’m serious. I’ve never felt this way or done this with a dude, ok? It’s  _you_.”

Castiel looked down through his lashes, laughing softly. “You’re sweet.”

Dean’s dropped his brow. “I’m not sweet. I’m manly and tough.”

“ _And_  you’re sweet.” Castiel looked up finally, and he leaned forward through the water, sliding a hand up Dean’s thigh and resting it there. “If you get turned on, Dean, you get turned on. You don’t have to hide that from me.” He pulled himself closer still, pressing their chests together and looking him in the eye. “And you don’t have to take care of it on your own.”

“I only--” Dean felt his voice pop, and he cleared it. “Only if you can, you know... not go all robot on me. Please.”

Castiel smiled sadly. “I’ll try.”

“Cas, you have to--you just have to tell me, ok? Talk to me. And we can do what we need to do to make it better. Or whatever. You know?” He pulled a wet hand from the water, stroking his thumb against the sharp curve of Cas's cheek.

Castiel laughed gently through his nose. “I know.”

They stretched their legs out as much as they could, folded their arms around each other, and kissed in the water, sliding their skin together, feeling the heat everywhere around. When it got to be too much, Dean paused them, suggesting that maybe they should actually clean up before things got too heavy. So they soaped themselves and each other, poured their last remaining pot of heated water over their heads, and shivered into their towels and fresh clothes.

Castiel tugged on his hand and led Dean into his bedroom; it was the first time he had ever really entered it. It was freezing cold, but they soon made the space beneath the sheets warm enough. Castiel was hard in Dean’s hands only for short while, but the two of them worked together, listening to each other, learning. Dean poured into Castiel’s mouth, staring down into his eyes, and Castiel did not hide away in shame when he could not come. They held each other and breathed together.

Castiel, nestled deep against Dean’s chest, rolled his lips onto Dean’s skin and whispered sleepily the answer to a question Dean had forgotten to ask. “Happy one month anniversary, Dean.”

And Dean blinked slowly, his lips curling upward. “Happy one month, Cas.”

They fell asleep in each other’s arms, finally completely warm.


	14. Return

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Come down from that mountain, wayward son.

A little over a week passed, and their time in the house was at an end. The power returned, and the snow melted as the temperatures rose in the warm sunlight. Icy patches still clung to the ground in the shade of the trees and the house, but it was time to plow them away, to open up the road, and create a pathway again to the rest of the world.

Dean and Castiel made their way down to the store on the tractor, clearing the remaining snow with ease and preparing themselves for the mess they knew they would discover there. As expected, the iceboxes had entirely melted; almost all the refrigerated goods had been soiled. Castiel took to the mop as Dean, with crinkled nose, walked out wilted lettuce, tomatoes, and spoiled milk. With tragic faces, they pulled out the wilted pies from the freezer, long lost amongst the sea of what was formerly ice. Castiel dropped his head in his hands, heavy with guilt, as Dean threw out the remains and returned, kissing the top of Castiel’s brow and saying kindly, “We can make more.”

“Not with our apples, though.”

“No…”

Cas shook his head and said darkly. “First thing when we’re through here: I am buying a generator.”

With the list of goods compiled and totaled for purchase, Dean and Cas concluded sadly that the store would have to stay closed the rest of the week to restock and prepare. Cas sighed, his back drooping against the chair. “It won’t dip too much into the savings. Although if this winter continues, I can’t imagine we’re going to have a very profitable end to the year.”

Dean said nothing, standing behind Castiel and kneading his hands into the muscles of Cas’s shoulders, feeling how greatly he wore the burden. Cas sighed, rubbing his palms into his eyes. “Mistakes I won’t make next year, I suppose. If I last that long.”

“You’ll last.”

Castiel nodded slowly, but did not speak. He double-checked the estimates on his calculator, then finally stood. “Well. I guess we should head back and get you packed up?”

“Oh.” Dean took a deep breath. “Yeah, I guess we should.”

Cas smiled softly, turning to him. “You can stay longer, if you’d like.”

Dean leaned his head to the side, and tried not to picture himself moving every single possession he owned into Castiel’s house, taking over half of his closet, of having Sam over for dinner… “I should definitely get back. Check on the place. See how Sammy and Bobby did.”

Castiel nodded kindly. “Mhmm. Well, that’s good—not sure I could take much more of you anyway.”

He smirked and walked to the door; Dean’s eyes narrowed smugly. “Yeah well, I’m sick of you, too.”

“I’m sure you are. Come on,” Cas waved an arm forward. “ _I’m_  driving the tractor up this time.”

Dean raised an eyebrow. “Oh really?”

“Yes, well…” Castiel opened the door. “I feel like taking a risk. Don’t you?”

“Stayed with you for a week, so obviously yes.”

“Ah, he manages to get one zinger in! Congratulations. How does it feel?”

“Go fuck yourself.”

“Oh!” Castiel turned with a grin as Dean walked through the doorway, shutting and locking the door behind them. He raised an eyebrow. “He does not like to lose.”

“I don’t mind losing—as long as it’s someone worth losing to.”

“The insinuation here being that I am  _not_  someone worth losing to?”

“That’s right.”

“And I am stung indeed. My goodness, you’re on a roll.”

“I’ll put  _you_  on a roll.”

“Do you think about these quips beforehand, or do they just come naturally to you?”

Dean turned suddenly and trapped Castiel in his arms, nuzzling their noses together and muttering, “Shut up.”

“Never. Certainly not if I keep winning.” He leaned away coyly as Dean tried to kiss him, ambling himself up onto the tractor seat with a grin. “Now, get up here and teach me how to drive this thing.”

On the whole, Castiel did fairly well driving up the hillside. There were only a few instances where Dean had to lean down and grab the wheel or shift the gear-stick for him. He grumbled instructions into Castiel’s ear, giving half-serious cries of exasperation when Cas erred. But his grousing was nothing Castiel couldn’t handle; he would slam down on the break and giggle as Dean toppled into him, carried forward from the momentum.

It was completely absurd to Dean that, although they spent a week together completely exclusive for company, he still wanted to be here. Still wanted his hand around Castiel’s waist as they swung to a stop in front of the garage. Still wanted that gentle bounce of laughter against him as they leaned together. Yes, they bitched at each other, and yes, there were moments when Dean was so cold and miserable because he could not get his damn feet warm for anything and he was whining to Castiel for no good goddamn reason—but he  _still_  wanted to be here.

Castiel hopped down off the seat, allowing Dean the more challenging task of backing the tractor into the bay, saying with a smile. “A lesson for next time.”

“You got it, babe,” Dean winked down roguishly.

The tractor parked, and the Impala pulled out from the garage to rest at the front porch steps, Dean walked inside with Cas. He took in a deep breath filled with hot, dry air, and never again felt he would take it for granted. They pieced his luggage together slowly, in no rush at all, and eventually they loaded up his car. He leaned against the hood as Castiel shut the passenger door. “I packed you some of that soup that we had yesterday.”

“Thank you,” Dean said, reaching out a hand and tugging Castiel flesh too him. The sun was bright overhead, warm and giving, and the man against him was solid, pressing fingers into the nape of his neck and melding their mouths together sweetly.

“You sure you won’t stay, then?” Castiel whispered, pulling back but keeping their bodies close.

Dean grunted, pressing his forehead into Cas’s and shutting his eyes. “I really can’t.”

“Hated it that much, hmm?”

Dean smiled and tipped their lips together. “Yup, hated it.” He kissed him again. “I hated it so much, it’s kind of scaring me.”

Cas nodded into him, pulling his hands on the lapels of Dean’s jacket, running his fingers there gently. “I know what you mean.”

Dean paused, and took a breath. He felt like saying something—he  _wanted_  to say something—but he didn’t know what. The emotion was so big and awful that it made his hands quiver to even touch on the thought. He swallowed roughly, still trying to place his tongue, when Castiel spoke softly and tenderly into the gap, as warm as the sun they stood in.

“I’m so glad you stayed with me, Dean.”

“Me too.”

“I like you so much.”

Dean’s voice was rough, and he chased it with Castiel’s lips. “I like you too.”

They kissed for a long moment, before Castiel pulled away with an impish chuckle. “I’m so glad we cleared that up.”

“Yeah…” Dean felt stupid and lightheaded, and so fucking happy it was making him see dizzy.

“I’ll write in my diary tonight: he likes me back.”

Dean rolled his eyes, grinning into Cas’s mouth. “You’re ruining the moment, Cas.”

“I’m not ruining it. I’m heightening it by exaggerating our circumstances into parody.”

“Dude,  _shut up_.”

They kissed and kissed and kissed again, because kissing was heaven, and this house was heaven. Something once so dark and haunted was now nothing but the light of the man in his arms. Dean didn’t want to go.

But, of course, he had to. Because real life was outside the orchard, beyond the arms of the trees and the fingers that encompassed his face. Because it was easier to disengage from the weight of that moment than to drown under it, and he was torn in his desires, wanting to sink and to run all at once.

Painstakingly, he pulled away. He kissed his lover chastely on the lips once, twice, three times, and finally forced himself into his car. Otherwise, he might never have left.

———————————-

Dean turned instinctively towards Bobby’s house when he arrived at the foot of their little mountain, but when he reached the house, it was missing one member he had expected to find there. Bobby, in the process of cleaning out his pantry, informed him in a slightly harried tone that Sam had gone back into work today. Even with a storm as large as this one, Bennington, like every town in the North, just kept right on moving. Dean never failed to admire the stalwart determination of northerners, and he tucked himself into another cleaning without complaint.

Bobby sorted through the shelves in his kitchen, taking away any and all expired foodstuffs. “Been meanin’ to get to this for a while now,” Bobby tossed over his shoulder. “What with cleaning out the fridge after the power-out, it seemed like a good idea to just keep going.” He glanced up and watched as Dean threw an old box of cereal into the trash nonchalantly. “You should recycle that, you know.”

“So that’s it, huh? Spend a week with Sam, you go all earth-happy?”

Bobby rolled his eyes. “Just recycle it, Dean.”

“Fine…” Dean retrieved it from the refuse and, removing the old cereal from the box, folded up the cardboard and set it aside. “How was the week for you guys?”

“Good enough—Played lots of board games and cards. Started going through some of those boxes of your Dad’s you brought over.”

“Oh yeah?”

“Yeah. Didn’t get very far, though. Sent some along with Sam to have at your place.”

“Find anything interesting?”

“Not really. But Sam enjoyed it.” He paused, thoughtfully. “So did I.”

For the first time, Dean felt a surge of regret that he hadn’t been there with the two of them to experience that, to witness the memories they discovered together. Then, suddenly, a warm and absurdly idyllic situation fluttered into his mind. Dean saw himself, Sam, Bobby, and Cas, all four together in this house, drinking from steaming mugs, going through old pictures and keepsakes. It warmed him, like a fucking Hallmark Christmas movie.

If Dean had pictured it in any other moment in time, he would have laughed it away mirthlessly. What Winchester ever ended up with something so inanely blissful? It seemed like every attempt made at domestic happiness was ripped asunder, so what was the point in wishing? But somehow, now, in this space, after the week Dean had just had with Castiel, he found himself staring down at the stale bag of chips in his hand, and  _believing_. He heard himself say softly, “Bobby, Cas and I are seeing each other.”

Bobby stopped moving. Dean’s breath was shallow over his parted lips, and he spoke again. “We’re together.”

Again, Bobby was silent. His eyes had widened slightly, and he stared down at the kitchen floor. Dean shook his head, his heart pounding in his throat. “Say something.”

Bobby took a deep breath, blinking slowly. “Well… wasn’t expecting that.”

“I know. Neither was I.”

“I uh… I didn’t even know you were gay.”

“I’m not. It’s just…  _Cas_.”

“Son, you can’t just say you’re dating a guy and then tell me you’re not gay.” Bobby finally looked up, rolling his eyes slightly. “I mean, I may have to do some research in the library, but I’m pretty sure that means you’re gay—or  _bi_ —or whatever the hell’s goin’ around these days.”

“Bobby, I—”

“Is that why you didn’t come up with Sam this week?”

Dean looked down and nodded. “Yeah. And Cas was gonna be all alone, and he’d never through a winter storm like that before, so…”

“You coulda brought him here.”

Dean’s eyebrows contracted, and he looked up at Bobby quickly. “Yeah?”

Bobby took a deep breath and rubbed the back of his neck awkwardly. “Well—I mean,  _hell_ , Dean, I don’t know. I didn’t see this in the cards for you, but—does he make you happy?”

Dean’s gut fell away completely, and his lips felt numb as he nodded. “Yeah. He does.”

“Well alright then. I’m on board with gay. Or bi. Or whatever.”

Dean blinked at the older man, then stared down at the chips still clutched in his fists. The weight of Bobby’s hand came to rest upon his shoulder, and suddenly Dean fell against him, dropping the bag from his hands and hugging him close. He squeezed his eyes shut as his fingers clenched at the worn plaid of Bobby’s shirt, the familiar smell and feel of him working at the back of this throat and making his eyes water. He hadn’t realized until this moment how scared he had been that he might lose Bobby. “I’m sorry I didn’t tell you,” he muttered somewhere deep into the flannel of Bobby’s shoulder.

“What, that you were gay?”

“No, I—” Dean laughed roughly. “No, that we were seeing each other. And I didn’t know I was until it happened.”

Bobby pulled back, raising an eyebrow. “How long this been goin’ on?”

“A month. Longer, actually, but we only figured things out a month ago.”

“Huh. Well, that explains a lot.”

“Explains a lot of what?”

“Oh, I dunno, weird moments, things I’d walk in on or see that didn’t quite make sense.”

“I should have told you.”

“S’alright. Can’t be easy, what with the world being what it is. I’m not mad at ya.” Bobby paused. “Although I  _am_  mad at ya for thinkin’ I’d disown you or something if I knew. You and Sam are the only sons I got, and you ain’t even mine.”

Dean looked at him seriously, and found himself unable to speak. They stared at each other, their eyes bright, until Bobby walked gruffly away and handed Dean something that smelled foul. “Now take this outside and throw it away.”

————————————

Stopped at a red light and blinded by the setting sun, Dean held his cell phone to his lips and smiled, gnawing a thumbnail, thinking about calling Castiel. To ask him how his day went, how shopping for supplies had gone, to find out every single minuscule detail of Castiel’s day, listening to the purr of his voice. And then Castiel would ask Dean about his day. And Dean would tell him how, on the whole, his day had been uninteresting. How he’d visited the garbage cans today more times than he ever wanted. But he and Bobby had talked, and melted cheese and salsa together in the microwave, and watched a game on TV. And he had told Bobby. He had come out. If it could be counted as coming out. Could he count that as coming out?

In the end, just before the light turned, he flipped open his phone and texted.  _I told Bobby about us today. He’s ok with it. Miss you._

He stared at the  _Miss you_. Yes, it was ok to send that—and it was true. Even if Castiel was so nearby that Dean, following his impulses, could be at Castiel’s house in less than fifteen minutes. But he still needed to see Sam, and there was a strange feeling prickling the back of his neck—he pegged it on the growing fear that Sam hadn’t remembered to unplug and defrost their fridge before he left on Saturday.

Dean had pulled into a parking space at his apartment when his phone dinged in response. _I’m proud of you—congratulations, Dean. And I miss you too. House is too big now without you in it._

Dean didn’t even bother to fight his grin, or to ignore the butterflies that fought against the cage of his heart. He took the stairs up to his door three at a time, turned the key in the lock, and saw Sam on the couch.

The smile fell away from his face.

“Sammy? What’s wrong?”

His brother sat with his elbows perched on his knees and his head ducked low. His shoulders were so hunched it appeared he was caving in on himself, and when he looked up to Dean there was such steele in his eyes it chilled Dean to his very core. “Hey Dean. Good to see you.” Sam drew a shaking breath. “Have a good week?”

In two seconds the door was closed and he was at his brother’s side, sitting next to him, placing a hand on his back. “Sam, what happened?”

For a few moments more, Sam did not move. Then, just as Dean was about to ask again, Sam leaned over and dragged an arm to the side of the couch, pulling around one of boxes Castiel had discovered in the attic.

“Oh,” Dean said quietly. “Bobby said you went through them.”

“Yeah, we did!” Sam’s voice was suddenly too loud, and Dean sat forward anxiously. “We did.”

Dean opened his mouth to speak, but Sam cut him off. “It’s strange, you know? The things that Dad kept. And the  _order_  he kept them in. I mean, there are boxes over here that are clearly yours, you know? It’s all Dean’s stuff. Dean’s homework, Dean’s projects—”

“Sam, what—”

“And then there’s  _my_  boxes. And they’re all very mine, just the same as yours are yours: it’s got my homework, my projects.” He paused, and blinked up at the ceiling. “So when I got home today, I thought I’d keep looking, you know? It had been nice. It had been really nice to see all of this stuff at Bobby’s… and this was in my things, Dean.”

“What was?”

Sam slid his hand through the folders and papers, painstakingly slowly, tucking his fingers around something and pulling it free. Dean stared, his voice hollow. “What is that.”

Sam sniffed. “Have a look for yourself.”

He tossed it roughly into Dean’s lap, then returned his elbows to his knees and sank again into his hands. Dean glanced down, feeling his fingers tremble as the tiny flicker of recognition burst into flame. He had asked what it was, but he knew. Dusty words written amongst dusty pages in this leather-bound journal—his  _father’s_  journal.

Dean’s jaw dropped. He remembered when his father would write here, coming home late from work, old and tired, dark. He had never let Dean or Sam open it or read it, but Dean knew what was inside. Dean  _knew_. And as much as he longed to never open the thing and to hurl it into a fire, he could not stop the ripple of his fingers as he slid the spine open. He heard the old leather crack unhappily, and he looked down at his father’s heavy, jagged handwriting, at the images he had sketched, pictures he had copied and glued onto the pages…

“It’s Mom, Dean.”

Dean looked up at his brother, who did not meet his eyes.

“It’s all about Mom. I used to think… I saw it, and I thought: it was his career, you know? His life, his stories, police cases. But it turns out it was just Mom.” Sam took a breath. “Everything he ever learned about her murder, Dean, is in that book.”

Dean did not speak. He looked down in his lap as he turned the pages automatically, his eyes alighting on a chart his father had penned out. He caught mention of his name and a time-frame.  _3:30 PM, 11/02/83: Dean and I decide to go out to see the movie. No phone calls are made or happen between this time and the time we leave. 4:30 PM, Dean and I leave for the movie…_  Dean did not read anymore, but couldn’t stop his eyes flashing to a time written darker than the others, a time underlined and boxed:  _approximately_   _6:00_ _PM_ _, Mary Winchester murdered in the foyer of her home_.

Dean looked up as Sam spoke, his brother’s body tense as he stared hard into the opposite wall. “I read the whole thing. I went through it all, Dean.” Sam’s voice began to break. “It’s all there. Everything.” He drew a shaking breath, then pulled his gaze back to meet his brother’s. “Dean I haven’t learned anything new. Dad knew it all already. I haven’t discovered  _anything_  new about Mom’s murder.  
“I’m not gonna solve this.”

Dean shook his head on instinct. “No, Sam, come on—you’re working with different cases, new equipment—”

“Dean, it doesn’t  _fucking_  matter: you’re not  _listening_  to me. I have literally brought  _nothing_ _new_  to her case. Nothing I have done in the past, what, four months here, has been worth _shit_!”

Sam stood up, his quiet upset combusting to rage as he stalked the room. Dean watched him from the couch, the book still clutched in his fingers. “That’s not true, Sammy.”

“Why the fuck wasn’t he honest about this, Dean? Why the  _fuck—_ Look, look in the back!” He rushed over to him, turning the pages in Dean’s hands. “He dated every day he wrote, every time he made an update—he stopped looking for her murderer  _years_  ago, Dean. He fucking  _gave up_ , because he knew that it was hopeless. He knew he was never gonna find him, or her, or who fucking ever did it—he  _knew_!”

Dean stared down at the section Sam had opened, registering that his father had stopped looking about two years before Sam had left, and three years before Dean did. Something painful twisted within him, something he couldn’t define; he gritted his teeth and dragged his eyes back up to his brother, whose chest was heaving violently.

“I was in law school, Dean. I had a  _life_. I had a girl who I—and I gave it all up to come back here, and for  _what_? To sleep on your couch? To have a shitty internship where I don’t get payed, and to slave every free hour of my life over pictures of  _dead_   _WOMEN_?”

Sam shouted his last words, kicking out his leg and sending the tattered box flying into the wall. Dean stood up fast; he had never seen his brother this angry. “Sam, take it easy!”

“Dean, I can’t…”

Sam threw his arms up, pulling fingers through his hair, looking wild, his eyes red and the veins in his arms bulging. “ _Why_  did he leave it with me, Dean? With  _my_  things? Between my history papers and science packets—why did he leave it with me? Why didn’t he tell us, Dean?”

Sam’s eyes had welled over, and he drew his shaking hands down his face. Dean took a step closer, but Sam recoiled. “He should have fucking told us. He should have—he should have said what was really happening, instead of feeding us crap. Instead of fucking treating us like we weren’t goddamn worth it. She was  _always_  more important to him, always—and he  _gave her up_  and didn’t—he didn’t…”

Sam backed into the wall, slamming against it and sliding down, burying his face in his hands and heaving. Dean rushed to him then, bracing either side of his brother’s arms and squeezing tightly.

“I hate him, Dean…” Sam whispered fiercely. “I hate him so much.”

Dean shook his head, feeling his heart shatter. “Don’t say that.”

Sam looked up suddenly, eyes wide. “Don’t fucking pretend you don’t hate him too.”

“I  _don’t_ , Sam. I don’t…” Dean swallowed. “He was our  _dad_.” When Sam said nothing, breathing out hard through his mouth, Dean shook him slightly. “He  _loved_  you.”

Sam shook his head. “He never fucking supported me, Dean. He and I were always fighting…”

“Well, at least you weren’t the son who got mom killed.”

Sam’s gaze snapped to his brothers. “It wasn’t your fault, Dean.”

“I know that, Sammy.”

Sam stared at him seriously. “He didn’t blame you.”

“Yeah, right.” Dean shook his head and laughed bitterly.

“Dean, he was fucking pissed that you were failing classes, getting drunk, doing  _drugs_. He had to  _arrest_  you, Dean—”

“Yeah, and what kind of father does that to his own son? Let me spend three nights in jail? Wouldn’t even talk to me? Yeah. That’s  _our_  dad.”

Sam set his jaw. “So why are you defending him, Dean.”

“Because… because…” Dean shook his head violently. “Because Dad was a screw-up, but he was  _our_  fucking screw-up, ok? He was…” He swallowed. “Because, Sam, he fucking loved us. Even me. He just didn’t know how to—he broke apart and wouldn’t let anyone put him back together.”

“That doesn’t excuse it, Dean.” Sam knocked his head back gently against the wall. “We were  _kids_ , Dean. I was a baby. I never… you have all of these memories of Dad and Mom, of them being  _happy_  together, and I just… all I have is this picture of Dad being angry, miserable, and  _sad_. He was sad all the time, Dean.”

Dean sat on his heels and pulled his hands away, leaning back and looking at the boxes stacked in the corner. “He kept all of this. He had to know we’d find it one day.”

“Maybe, maybe not.” Sam gave a shaking sigh. “Why was it with my things, Dean?”

“I dunno.” Dean shrugged. “Maybe he knew you were the good son, and if anyone could put together the pieces of the puzzle, it’d be you.”

Sam rolled his eyes and laughed darkly. “Yeah, sure.” He sighed again, more stable this time. “So… that’s it, then, isn’t it?”

Dean looked across at Sam, suddenly fearful. “What do you mean?”

“I don’t know, Dean. I don’t know anymore.” He ran his hand through his hair.

Dean looked down at the ground, licking his lips and fighting the flashes of discovering Sam’s college applications, realizing like a punch to the chest that Sam hadn’t applied to anywhere in-state or to anywhere on the east coast. Dean shook his head and fixed a blank look to his face. “Did you say you had a girlfriend at Stanford?”

Sam lips tightened and he nodded. “Sort of. Jessica.”

“And she left you, I’m guessing, like the smart girl she was?”

“No, you asshole.” Sam shifted, a smile finally flitting across his face. Something warm crossed his eyes as he remembered. “We had just met. We weren’t even really  _something_ , but… we were getting there.”

Dean took a deep breath, feeling a lurch in his stomach, and he gazed around and around the apartment to escape from the swelling of his throat. He paused, fixating on something. “You remembered to turn off the fridge.”

“Yeah, of course I did.”

“Well, I was wondering if you would…”

They sat together, silent for a very long time, before Dean stood and offered a hand down to Sam, who took it gratefully. “Sam,” Dean said, looking at his feet. “You just…” He stopped, feeling unsure if he could say the words. “You just do what you need to do, alright?”

Sam hesitated, then said, “Alright.”

“And don’t—” Dean stopped again. “Don’t think the time you spent here was worthless. I don’t.” With nothing left to say, Dean picked up his bag, walked back into his room, and shut the door.

————————————-

Dean slept badly that night. He longed for the comfort Castiel could bring, so much so that he could hardly stop himself from getting up and driving to him in the middle of the night, sinking into Castiel’s breast, burying his head there and wanting to forget.

As it was, in the week that passed, Dean stopped trying to resist that urge. Sam began to fold up his clothing, removing it from the makeshift dresser in the corner, and tucking it wordlessly into a suitcase. Dean looked up from his dinner; Sam put away a shirt here and a shirt there, then he sank back down onto the couch and quietly resumed watching the television.

Sam was still going to work at the Harvelle’s every day, but now he came home early. And while he and Dean sat together on the couch, drank a beer, and chatted in the evenings, they barely said a word to each other of what they  _really_  wanted to say. Dean kept waiting for Sam to bring up his leaving, to mention the suitcase zipped up in the corner of the room. It was a fucking elephant. But Sam didn’t speak a word about it. So at night, Dean would grab a toothbrush and boxers and drive to Castiel’s, sliding into his bed and arms, and breathing him in.

The Friday after Sam’s discovery, Dean and Cas had just returned to the house from restocking the store, when Dean finally told Castiel what was going on. They stood together in the doorway, and it came bursting out from him, unstoppable; he told him about the journal, about his mother, about Sam. And while he did, Castiel tucked himself neatly beneath Dean’s neck, kissing the pulse spot there and whispering gently. Cas nuzzled deep and let Dean’s shoulders heave against him. Taking Dean’s hands, he tugged him gently up the stairs and put him into bed, crawling in to spoon behind him without another word.

Dean slept for hours. And when he awoke, he felt, for the first time, a sudden clarity. He shifted in Castiel’s arms, taking note of the early evening sun having vanished behind growing storm clouds; a hum of thunder buzzed through the air. He pulled his fingers down to Castiel’s hand on his waist, threading them together as he turned in his arms. Castiel breathed awake slowly. “Mmm…”

“Hey,” Dean said, his voice husky with sleep.

Cas mumbled, opening his eyes in a flutter, “Are you alright?”

“Yeah.” He paused. “Cas, there’s something I gotta go do.”

“Ok.” Cas took another deep breath and sat up slightly. “Do you want me to come with you?”

“No.” Dean leaned up and kissed him tenderly, softly, lingering there against his lips for as long as he could. “No, it’s okay. I’ve just gotta go say goodbye.”

The sky rumbled darkly as Dean drove down the hill, and raindrops splattered on his face as he left the grocery. By the time he had made it up to Hinsdillville Cemetery, the rain was pouring down in such torrents that he could barely see out his windshield. But Dean parked the car and got out regardless, opening his grey umbrella and making his way up the hill, completely heedless of the fact that there was another car parked a row away from him and that he was not alone; Dean didn’t see Sam until he was almost upon him.

Sam was leaning up against the beech tree by their parents’ graves, its leaves still clinging to the branches in the breath of winter. His eyes were trained on the ground, but at the approaching crunch of Dean’s footsteps on the gravel he looked up, completely surprised. “Dean!”

“Sam?” Dean said, stepping close and tipping his umbrella under Sam’s black one, peering at him closely.

“What are you doing here?” Sam asked.

“I was gonna ask you the same thing.” Dean paused, shivering in the cold. He stared up at Sam closely, noticing how red his nose was, how his lips were almost tinted blue. “How long have you been up here?”

Sam shrugged. Dean opened his mouth to speak, but Sam cut him off. He nodded down to Dean’s hand. “I should have brought flowers.”

Dean looked down, almost surprised to see the lilies he still clutched there in his gloved fist. “Oh. Right.” Dean hesitated, then stepped out from the shelter of the tree into the downpour. Stepping carefully around the still-high mound of dirt over his father, he nestled the flowers just between his parents’ gravestones. Sam joined him, the rain bouncing violently off of their umbrellas, cacophonous in the silence. “Can’t believe we haven’t been out here since June. It was raining then, too.”

“Yeah,” Dean nodded. He glanced at Sam out of the corner of his eye. “Sam: what are you doing here.”

“I don’t… I don’t know. I’m trying to figure things out, but… Like  _they_  could tell me.” He nodded down at the gravestones, his mouth pulled tight into a grimace. “My bag is packed, Dean. It’s in the car. I could leave for California right now.”

Dean swallowed, his eyes hardening. “Without telling me?”

“No, I was—I would have told you! I just—” Sam shoved his hands in his pockets. “I’m all packed, I’m ready to go—but I just  _can’t_  do it.” Sam ran his fingers through his hair, grown long in the months he had spent buried in his work. “I keep asking myself why I even came here, and why I ever left in the first place.”

Sam stared down at his father’s grave, his eyes searching, boring into it as if to carve his own name there instead. He was silent for a long, long time, and when he finally spoke, his voice was lower and determined, as though he had aged years in moments. “I’ve gotta let her go, Dean; I’ve gotta let him go. I’ve  _got_  to let  _go_.”

Sam reached out and gently tapped his fingers against the top of their father’s gravestone, lingering there for a moment before falling away to his side. Dean felt his lips tremble, and he pressed them together tightly, shifting his grip on the umbrella. “Sounds like a plan, Sammy.”

Sam sighed, shaking his head slowly. “Easier said than done.”

“Yeah, well,” Dean shrugged. “It’s something, at least.”

The rain continued around them with no sign of slackening; it grew heavier and darker as the precipitation mixed with sleet. Finally, Dean and Sam turned to each other, and wordlessly they agreed that it was time to go. As the first flakes of snow began to descend, Dean and Sam walked down the hill together.


	15. Gifts

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The ghosts of Christmas past, present, and future.

Fall faded into winter with far less dramatic flare than it had started with. The rain storms and snowfall that had been so prevalent had now all but vanished, leaving the ground cold and dry, only a few browned and scattered leaves left to dust the land. This proved advantageous for Dean and Castiel, who were able to keep the restaurant open far longer than anticipated; Castiel could almost see a return on the new generator, recently installed and running perfectly. Naturally, he had said, the moment he became truly prepared for winter weather they would receive none.

And Castiel really had prepared himself, going one step further and installing a second generator at his house. Dean teased him ruthlessly, saying that Castiel hadn’t even had a chance to earn his Northerner badge as he had only been through one blizzard, but Castiel was not affected. And truthfully, Dean was grateful. He spent more and more time at Castiel’s house and less in his own apartment; his toothbrush even lived there, along with several spare sets of clothing folded in Castiel’s drawer. He made no announcement about doing this, and Castiel made no acknowledgment of the toothbrush sitting next to his in the little cup by the sink. They settled into each other as quietly and as subtly as they could. It didn’t surprise Dean at all to come home one day and find Sam asleep on his bed. He nudged him awake and said quietly, “You can move into the bedroom, if you’d like. And I’ll take the couch.”

As Sam nodded and smiled, mumbling his thanks, Dean stood and left, saying, “It’s more comfortable anyway.”

Christmas Eve was upon them before they knew it. A holiday that had been so innocuous before, something so seldom looked forward to with any anticipation, suddenly seemed to bear weight as he watched Castiel set out a small Nativity set, taking great care with each shepherd, sheep, ox and lamb. He placed Mary and Joseph together by the manger, then straightened his legs and smiled down at it. Dean poked the empty manger. “Where’s Jesus?”

“You don’t put him out until Christmas morning, Dean.”

“Oh.”

Dean stared at Castiel who knelt again, fussing with the porcelain figures with his usual obsessive accuracy. Castiel nodded slightly. “Did you have one of these, growing up?”

“No, I...My mom did. I kinda remember it, but after she died...” He hesitated. “Did you?”

Castiel tilted his head to the side, repositioning the angel that was hooked to the top of the stable just above where the baby Jesus would lay. The angel’s arms were outspread, its face pure. “Yes,” he whispered, and there was something so reverent about it that Dean felt the words whisk through him and grip him fast around the heart. The breath caught in his chest, and when Castiel finally stood, Dean reached for his shoulders with a smile and said, “Would you like to have Christmas with me, Sam, and Bobby this year?”

“Yes, Dean. I would.”

Of course, the best laid plans turned to turgid nausea as the day arrived. Dean and Cas stacked their gifts into a paper bag for transport, while Dean sniped at Castiel over the smallest thing. One of them--probably Dean, if he thought about it long enough--had drank the last of the coffee without replacing it, so they didn’t have any to drink that morning. And Dean had forgotten to get gas earlier, so now they would have to do that as well, which was somehow extremely inconvenient.

Castiel’s face was blank and drawn as Dean groused and grumbled about, Cas’s eyes shut with barely maintained patience. He waited by the side of the car as Dean ran back inside to find his car keys, as they were just there a second ago, and,  _why’d you move them, Cas?_ \--when Dean knew very well Castiel had probably not even touched them.

At the gas station, Dean prepaid at the counter and bought the two of them coffees. He glared up at the television playing behind the cash-register, irritated at both the inane banter happening and how off the timing of the closed-captioning was. He gruffly nodded when the cashier wished him a Merry Christmas--what the hell did that guy know, Dean could have been Jewish, or Muslim, or agnostic, which he actually was--and headed back out to the Impala. Setting the coffees on the roof of his car, he dipped the gas nozzle into action, then opened the door and slid inside.

“You know that’s dangerous,” Castiel said without looking at him, as Dean handed his coffee over. “Static electricity can build up between your clothing and the car seat and then, when you go back to the gas, a spark could ignite the fume.”

“Yeah well, it’s cold.” Dean closed the door behind him. “And I know how to discharge static, Cas, this isn’t my first time at a gas station.” Dean grimaced, sipping his coffee. “This tastes like shit.”

“Yes, it does.” Castiel agreed. He hesitated for a moment, looking down at the lid as he pressed a tab down absently. “Are you alright?”

“I’m fine. Why wouldn’t I be. It’s fucking Christmas.”

The gas clunked to a finish, and Dean stepped outside. Engine running and back on the road, Dean shivered in his seat, the air inside the car no longer warmer than that on the outside. He and Cas made it a few miles in a tense silence before Castiel, unable to bear it anymore, sighed and said loudly, “Pull over.”

Dean did as he was told, turning off onto the shoulder of the almost empty two-lane highway. He put the car into park, clenched his fists on the steering wheel, and waited. Castiel spoke flatly. “We are not showing up to Bobby’s house like this.”

“Ok.”

“Will you please talk to me?”

“Nothin’ to talk about.”

“Dean--” Castiel dropped his head to his hands, exasperated. With one last fading stab at patience, he said in a small voice, “You told me he was fine with us.”

Dean took a breath, and did not say anything.

“You said he and Sam were both fine with it.  _Supportive_.”

“Yeah?”

“And two days ago you seemed happy about doing this--you  _wanted_  to do this, Dean.”

“I know.”

“So?” Castiel threw his hands up, and Dean finally met his eyes. “Are you not... do you want to go back, or something?”

“No.”

Castiel stared at him, blue eyes wide and confused, his hands waving about in a search for words. He eventually gave up and sat back against his seat, waiting for Dean to answer the unasked question.

Dean grunted. “Cas, I’m--” He ran his fingers over his eyes. “I’m just... I’m freaked out, ok? I’m freaked out.”

Castiel shook his head and leaned himself against the window, his brow dropping as a few cars whizzed past. “They said they were ok with us, Dean.”

“I know.”

“Are you...” Castiel paused, blinked suddenly. “Are  _you_  not ok with us?”

“What? No, no!” Dean reached to him and clasped at Castiel’s hand, pulling it into his own and holding it fast. “Of course not. How could you say that?”

“Well...”

“No, Cas, it’s just that... this is my family. And being with you, all  _coupley_  in front of them... I don’t know why that scares me but it does. And that’s stupid. And I know everything’s gonna be okay, I just...”

“You’re scared.”

Dean shrugged. “Yeah.”

“Why couldn’t you just tell me that?”

“Well because... well, you’re all composed and cool and--nothing  _bothers_  you, man, like--this doesn’t get to you at all, and--”

“Did you ever stop to think that I’m scared too?”

“You are?”

“Yes.” Castiel looked down at his hands. “Of course I am. I mean, less so because I’ve already met and know Sam and Bobby. But I’ve mostly just been worried about you all day.” He rolled his eyes with a smile. “You’re really irritating.”

Dean laughed softly, “I know.”

“Dean--” Castiel looked up at him. “It  _is_  going to be okay.”

“I know that, too.”

Cas hesitated. “If you’re not ready to do this, we can--”

“No, I’m ready. I am. Just, maybe...” Dean grinned lopsidedly. “Maybe you take the lead on this thing, ok?”

“What does  _that_  mean? Take the lead on what--” Cas held up air quotes, “Being  _coupley_?”

“Well, yeah.”

Castiel’s eyes widened, and he stared at him. “As in, even if you wanted to lean over and take my hand, if you wanted to kiss me, you wouldn’t?”

“No, I just--” Dean flushed red, and Castiel leaned back, a smirk playing about his lips.

“Ever brought home a girl before, Dean?”

Dean rolled his eyes. “Of course.”

“Ah.” Castiel paused. “So how exactly am I different?”

“You’re  _not_.” Dean felt his cheeks burning. “It’s just that I really care about you--a lot--and this kind of stuff is harder  _because_  I really care about you, ok? You’re  _important_  to me.”

Castiel’s eyes softened, his amusement changing to affection. After a long second, he unbuckled his seatbelt and crawled into Dean’s arms, letting Dean latch onto him and bury his head in the crook of his shoulder. Castiel looked around at him, craning his neck ever so slightly to say, “You’re really cute.”

“Shut up.” Dean said, muffled in Cas’s clothing.

“It’s practically impossible to stay mad at you,” Cas said, as Dean gave a small chuckle, pulling Castiel closer to him. "It's actually quite frustrating.”

He weaved his fingers through Dean’s hair as a few cars passed outside, and in those moments of embrace the fears in Dean’s heart eased. But eventually, Castiel pulled away and began moving back to his side of the car. “Come on. It’s time to go.”

Dean pouted, reaching fingers out to try and tuck him back in, but Castiel shoved him gently away. “Drive, Dean. We can cuddle when we get there.” He grinned as he saw Dean’s face fall. “ _Yes_ , in front of everybody. Because that’s what couples do. Unless, of course...” Castiel raised an eyebrow. “You’re too chicken.”

Dean said nothing; he simply grumbled under his breath, and Castiel laughed outright at him. Glancing in his side mirrors, Dean slid back out onto the road and drove the rest of the way to Bobby’s.

\------------------------------

Dean didn’t really know when their little game began to be taken so seriously, but an hour into their evening at Bobby’s, Dean and Castiel were still avoiding physical contact. The moment that they walked through the door, Castiel began to keep his distance from Dean, occasionally looking over at him coyly. At one point, he caught Dean’s eyes and pointed upward with a grin. Dean rolled his eyes, shoving his hands in his pockets and walking back into the kitchen for more eggnog. Castiel had been purposefully placing himself under the mistletoe, and it was hardly likely Dean would lose the game for something as simple as that--never mind the fact that Castiel was postively glowing in the house, lighting up as he spoke to Bobby and Sam so openly. Dean knew that kind of openness was something Castiel always struggled to achieve, but it truly looked as though he was, in this space, doing so effortlessly. It made Dean want to scoop Castiel up into his arms and pepper him with kisses. But he would be damned if he gave in first.

By four o’clock, as the winter sun was stepping down from its zenith, the four men had gathered in the living room by the fire. Sam was passing out gifts, giggling as he did so. He’d been drinking a bit longer than Dean, and his cheeks were tinted ever so slightly red. “Here’s one for you, Bobby. And this is to Dean, whoever that guy is.” He handed the neatly wrapped box to his brother, then poked him in the knee. “Why aren’t you sitting with your boyfriend.”

Dean pursed his lips and blushed, looking across at Castiel who tilted his head and said, “Yes, Dean, there’s plenty of room on this armchair with me.”

The smug little smirk on his face was too much, so Dean leaned back, exaggeratedly stretching himself out on the couch. “I’m fine over here, thanks.”

But Sam wasn’t listening anymore; he had returned to the tree and was fishing out more boxes. “These are for Jody--it sucks she had to work on Christmas Eve.”

“We’ll see her later on, she’ll get off around six.” Bobby paused, then grimaced suddenly. “Think she’ll want to take me to church after dinner. Been tryin’ to get out of it.”

Dean glanced up. “I thought she wasn’t gonna be here tonight?”

“She managed to pull some strings. What’s the point in being the Sheriff if you can’t see your family on Christmas?” Bobby said, accepting another present from Sam.

Dean bit his lips; he hadn’t anticipated Jody’s presence and the potential complications that might arise from it. He glanced at Castiel, but Cas did not meet his eyes. Instead he was looking at Bobby, and he said very clearly, almost more for Dean’s benefit than Bobby’s, “It will be nice to see her.”

Dean opened his mouth to add something, but Sam shoved a pair of headband reindeer antlers under his nose. “Put on some flare, Dean!”

“You should wear them, you’re playing Santa.”

“Nope,” Sam said with a smirk. He settled himself on the opposite end of the couch, bringing with him his small stack of presents. “Although Santa does get to open his present first.” He waved his fingers over his three gifts, and then snatched at the small, letter-shaped box. “I pick Dean’s.”

Dean, who had been distractedly gnawing on his thumb and thinking about what Jody might say about he and Cas, suddenly sat up, nervous. “Sorry about the wrapping paper, I didn’t really have time to--”

“Dean.” Sam leveled his gaze at him, holding up the present and giving it a little shake. “This is how I knew it was yours.” He had tucked in before Dean could say another word, and in seconds the box was unwrapped. His exaggerated haste slowed, and his fingers paused, lifting the contents carefully.

College pamphlets for Vermont Law, Yale, Harvard, and others scattered through Sam’s fingers. He fanned each one out and stared at them, and then discovered at the bottom the blank check that Dean had written. “Dean, what is this?”

Dean held out a hand. “Now, that isn’t a check for your whole schooling or anything. I can’t afford that yet, but...” He hesitated, and Sam looked up at him, still silent. “It’s for application fees. For any of those, all of those... Or none of those, if you hate them. Or if you don’t want to go. It’s...” He trailed off. “It’s up to you, ok?”

Sam looked back down at the pamphlets, and then a soft smile grew across his face. He shuffled through them again. “I notice all the north-east schools are on top.”

“Well, they are the best choices, obviously.”

“I’m surprised you even included  _any_  California schools.” He laughed softly, and when he met Dean’s eyes, his voice shook. “Thank you, Dean.”

“You’re welcome.” Dean nodded, ducking his face and staring at the mug of eggnog in his hands. The weight of the room was focused on him, and Dean, clearing his throat, said quickly, “Alright Bobby, you next.”

Bobby, smiling gently at Dean, sat forward and selected the bag from Sam. After a moment of listening to Bobby’s good-natured grumbling and fiddling with the packaging, Dean finally felt he could raise his eyes and find Castiel. Cas had known about Dean’s gift to Sam, of course. He had said he thought it would be a lovely gesture, when Dean wasn’t sure if the idea was good enough. Their eyes met across Bobby’s living room, and suddenly, the coy game of the hours before had vanished. Castiel looked at him, and Dean looked back.

“Oh wow, Sam. I haven’t seen this in years!” Bobby held up the first season of MASH on DVD.

“I remember you liked it, so...”

“Well, it’s a great show.”

Dean smiled, breaking his connection with Cas just for a second to see the wonder on Bobby’s face, to see Sam smile, and when he looked back up, Castiel had casually crossed the distance between them. Standing in front of Dean, he looked down sweetly and leaned in, kissing him. Turning around, he settled himself gently on the floor in front of Dean and leaned back against his knees. As Sam stood to show Bobby something on the DVD case, Dean slowly twisted a finger through the short hair at Castiel’s neck and bent down, whispering, “You gave up, huh?”

Castiel shrugged, and turned his face ever so slightly, his eyelashes darting against Dean’s cheek. “Gladly.”

The rest of the evening was spent quietly. Castiel opened, much to his surprise, a present from Bobby and Sam, which ended up being a veritable mountain of winter scarves, hats, and caps. “Dean said you only had a few,” shrugged Bobby, while Cas stammered his thanks around Dean, who was shoving several of the new hats so far down Castiel’s head that they covered his eyes, saying,“Does it fit?”

“Perfectly,” muttered Cas, as Dean gave one last tug over the tip of his long nose.

When a small pile of wrapping paper had accumulated on the floor, and the sum total of the presents had been opened, Bobby asked Dean where he and Cas’s gifts for each other were. Dean glanced down at Castiel, who was flipping through Sam’s gift to him, the coming year’s farmer’s almanac and a history of the farmer’s almanac. “We’re gonna wait until Christmas morning to give ours to each other, actually.”

Castiel tossed a smile look over his shoulder, and Dean very nonchalantly gave a tug against Cas’s collar, encouraging him upwards and nestling him on the couch. Sam had taken Cas’s unoccupied armchair, so the two of them could stretch out their legs as they listened to the  _Classic Rock Christmas_  album Dean had bought for Bobby as a joke. Surprisingly, it wasn’t all that bad, thought Dean would not have admitted it; it was oddly comforting to hear Styx sing about Santa.

Dean felt warm and relaxed; he closed his eyes without a second thought. With Castiel curved into his side, still peering through the almanac that now rested on Dean’s stomach, they slowly drifted off. By the time they awoke, Dean breathing deep, stretching his arms up over his head and Castiel sliding a hand across his chest, they became aware of the smell of dinner and a female voice in the kitchen. Their eyes snapped open to each others; Dean’s mouth pulled comically, making Castiel muffle his laughter into Dean’s neck. Jody had arrived, and she certainly must have seen the two of them so entwined together, napping on the couch. He grinned at Cas, and tipped his head down for a small kiss. “Well,” he whispered. “That just made things a lot easier.”

“Yes, it did.”

They kissed again for a moment before standing together, joining the rest of the party in the kitchen. 

There was no awkwardness over dinner. Dean and Castiel sat next to each other at the table, and when it was time for them to leave, Jody handed them each presents. Castiel blinked rapidly in surprise as Jody tugged him down into a hug, staring at the gift in his hands. “Thank you.” Dean stared at Cas, feeling his heartbeat as he realized that Castiel hadn’t anticipated receiving any gifts tonight, let alone two.

“It’s just cookies, Castiel. Don’t get too excited.” She smiled up at the pair of them, something big encompassing her eyes, and she thumped Dean meaningfully on the shoulder, saying, “You boys have a Merry Christmas.”

“You too, Jody.”

She, Bobby, and Sam waved from the front door, shuffling quickly back inside as the cold whipped through the night. Dean and Castiel, tucked safely inside the Impala, held hands on the way down the road and through the town. Dean couldn’t stop glancing across at him, as he ran his thumb across the top of Cas’s knuckles and fingers.

The town glowed beneath them as they climbed up their mountain. Christmas lights glistened between the trees, until they were so sunk into the evergreen forest that the darkness was pervasive. Only the moon hanging in its slender arch gave off any kind of light as they passed through the main gate. But as they drove up the orchard path, they drew nearer and nearer to the welcoming, soft glow of the Christmas lights Dean and Castiel had hung just last week, wrapped around and around the porch railings.

Dean pulled the car to a stop at the front steps, turning off the engine. His arm was poised to open the door, but Castiel placed a hand on his arm, stopping him. “Wait.”

“Hmm?”

Cas smiled and shifted in his seat, his face lit warmly. “I have something to give you. Part of your Christmas gift.”

“I thought we were waiting till tomorrow.”

“We are, I just...” He shrugged. “I want to give you this part early. Mind, this is actually the  _good_  part of the gift, and tomorrow’s gift will probably severely disappoint you. At least,” he looked up at Dean wryly, “I  _hope_  this is the good part of the gift.”

Dean didn’t say anything; he licked his lips and watched as Castiel reached into his interior coat pocket and pulled out a very small, flat box. Studying it for a moment, he slowly handed it to Dean, who took it carefully.

“What is it?”

“Well, you have to open it and find out, don’t you?”

Dean, smiling, bit his lips and slid away the small ribbon that bound the box together, opening it. His jaw dropped gently, and his fingers looped around and lifted up a golden key. His eyes switched focus from it to Castiel, who was watching him nervously.

“It’s a key,” Dean said quietly.

“Yes, it is.” Castiel paused, and then, in one small, quick motion, pointed to the front door. “Would you like to try it out? It should--” He didn’t finish the sentence because Dean, grinning, had already opened the car door and was halfway up the porch steps. Castiel followed, grabbing their bags and locking the car doors behind him. Dean heard him follow up the steps, and waited just long enough so that Castiel could see the key slide in and turn, as Dean opened the house.

The door swung inward, and Dean only allowed himself a small moment to treasure it before walking quickly inside, Castiel following him in, shutting the door to keep the cold out. They shivered as the heat welcomed them, and Castiel set down their bags. He was smiling from ear to ear, and he was beginning to babble. “It’s strange, isn’t it, to be getting a key back that you gave me--not that it’s the same key, or anything like that. It’s new. And I’m glad it worked--I tested it, but I was so nervous. I thought you might not want it--”

“Why wouldn’t I want this?” Dean asked, his voice low and soft, the key still trapped in his fingers. Castiel turned slowly, blushing, almost hesitant to meet Dean’s eyes.

“Well, I mean... It is a bit quick, I suppose.”

“On who’s timeline? Not mine.”

“Mine neither.”

Dean reached down to his pocket. He fished out his small key ring, and, with purposeful slowness, hooked the key into its proper place. He slid them all together back into his pocket, the house’s key chiming gently against the Impala’s key, and then he looked at Castiel. They stared at each other for a few moments, and then they came together under the foyer light. Dean said thank you, whispering it into Castiel’s ear before returning their mouths, opening gently, without rush or fear. Their tongues flicked against one anothers, tips colliding in a frenzy of nerves and a flutter of heart. “That was a pretty great gift.”

“Yeah..?” Castiel breathed, pulling back just slightly. “The second part of it sucks.”

“I’m sure I’ll love it.” Dean delved himself onto Cas’s neck, kissing it softly, sucking with each retreat and tonguing his way back up.

“Not likely...” Castiel gasped as Dean bit his earlobe. “It’s a book...”

“You’re just giving away all your secrets tonight.”

“Mmm...” Cas said, any real retort lost in Dean’s mouth. His hands came up to Dean’s elbows, trailing down to his wrists and then settling around his waist, whispering, “What did you get me..?”

“Like I’ll tell.” Dean leaned away, allowing Castiel to push the jacket from his shoulders. “You’ll have to wait until Christmas morning.”

“Not fair...” Castiel groaned, and Dean walked him backwards until his back bumped gently against the wall by the stairs.

“Actually, totally fair.” Dean pressed on Castiel’s shoulders, shucking his coat away to the floor. Dean kissed his way down, lowering himself to his knees as Castiel pulled his own sweater over his head, dropping his hands to the tops of Dean’s shoulders and leaning his head back to the wall. Dean leaned in and kissed the skin just above Castiel’s waistline, watching it jump in response, seeing him shiver. He reached down to Castiel’s shoes and slowly undid the laces, pausing to kiss and breathe against the fold of Cas’s jeans.

Castiel hummed pleasantly, and while Dean could never be certain what the results of his attentions to Castiel would be, it didn’t matter. Castiel let him do this, and Dean loved to watch him sink into whatever fit of passion they belonged to. He bit teasingly against the skin of Cas’s waist as the laces came undone, and he tugged at an ankle. Cas leaned down against Dean’s back, and together, they slipped him free. Dean stood again, hands traveling up the backs of his legs, this time angling with his hips and pinning Castiel gently against the wall.

“What about your shoes?” Castiel asked, and the words had barely left his lips before Dean kicked them off with no ceremony. Castiel laughed, and Dean caught his mouth again, pulling Castiel back and swaying.

“Upstairs?”

“Uh huh...” Cas nodded, and Dean practically lifted him up the first step. Castiel moved backwards as much as was safely possible, not letting them disconnect as Dean kicked open the bedroom door and lay Castiel down on the bed. He undid the button to Cas’s jeans, slid the zipper down, and Castiel lifted his hips, allowing Dean to slide the pants free.

Dean stood, dropping Castiel’s jeans and then tackling his own, stepping free of them when Cas held up a hand. “Shirt.”

Dean had forgotten about his top layers, and he quickly removed them, getting his head tangled for a moment, making Castiel giggle profusely until he reached to help, popping Dean’s head free and tugging him back down to lay on top.

Castiel spread his legs just slightly, and Dean descended on his mouth, diving his tongue in and out. He pressed their hips together with a groan and felt Castiel hitch a breath down deep, fluttering his eyes shut. Dean moved because he had to move--he moved with every compulsion, thrusting the cotton of their briefs against each other in the most frustrating tease. And when Castiel’s legs opened wider, Dean felt it, the sudden spur to life in Castiel’s groin, and he couldn’t help his smile as he rutted more firmly, flattening himself against Cas and rocking his hips around and around.

He dropped to Castiel’s ear, licking it, hearing and feeling so close the huff of Castiel’s breathing. Dean whispered carefully, stilling his body for a moment, kissing the edge of Castiel’s cheekbone, “Can I have you in my mouth, Cas?”

A small moan escaped next to Dean’s ear, and he felt Cas nod. So Dean, carefully watching each expression on Castiel’s face, began to work his way downward. He had done this before, and he was getting better at it--at least, he assumed he was. It was difficult to tell when Castiel’s erections were so unpredictable. But that didn’t matter as much as the fact that Dean liked doing it, liked feeling the weight of Cas on his tongue--he would continue to suckle long after the flesh had turned flaccid, even daring himself so far as to press a finger at Castiel’s entrance, licking it, and returning again, pushing gently without opening, teasing himself as much as Castiel, who always moaned beneath him.

Dean reached the top of Castiel’s waistband and tucked his fingers there, leaning his head down further and kissing, licking, and kissing Castiel again, over and over through the fabric, listening to him breathe, to every last cadence of it, feeling the erection grow larger and larger against his teasing. Cas lifted his hips, silently pleading with Dean to remove the fabric block, which Dean did very quickly. It was never wise to tease this sort of thing for too long with Cas; he had made that mistake once before.

Castiel’s cock was full, the tip of it almost red in its flush, and it arched gracefully back to his stomach. Dean licked his lips, and then tongued from the very base of the shaft up, burying his hand in the dark hair it grew from and rolling his fingers there.

Cas sighed, the music of his voice catching on the end, his hips flattening and wriggling as his stomach disappeared, sucked in and held, tense. Dean pulled himself away, placing a palm to the sudden abscess and instructing gently, “Breathe, baby.”

Castiel shuddered, his hand reaching down to clasp at Dean’s as he obeyed, his eyes looking up at the ceiling, weighted with the doubt that Dean always saw there and longed so badly to erase. With his free hand, Dean grabbed at the base of Cas’s cock and tilted it towards his mouth, exhaling hot air above and around it, flicking his tongue out once or twice, watching Cas’s eyes flutter, watching him concentrate so much on breathing that his free hand twisted in distraction at his side.

Dean sighed quietly, and squeezed the hand he held. “Hey.”

Cas opened his eyes and looked down. Dean nodded slightly. “Scoot back a bit.”

Castiel did so without hesitation, moving more as Dean nudged him, until he was angled up gently against the headboard. Dean, rising onto his knees, leaned forward and kissed Castiel’s lips tenderly, pulling back to look him in the eye. “Can you watch me?”

“I do watch you, Dean.” Cas said, his breath increasing.

“Yes, I know. But right now, you’re looking at the ceiling, and I want you--” Castiel gave a small shake of his head and Dean cupped his cheek. “I want you to see this. To see how fucking amazing you are.”

He reached his hand down, gripping and pulling Cas’s cock, his fingers circling as he pumped slowly. Cas’s eyes closed, and Dean shook his head. “Open your eyes, Cas.”

And Castiel did so.

“Look at this.”

Cas slid his liquid eyes downward, watching Dean’s hand move steadily, heady air escaping over his parted lips.

“This is all you.”

“Dean...”

“This is you, and this is how much I care about you.” Dean paused, and then kissed Castiel deeply, tilting his head as much as was possible, putting everything he could into those few seconds, before pulling back. “And that was a fucking awesome Christmas present.”

Castiel laughed, a real, genuine laugh, and he gasped suddenly as Dean reaffirmed his grip. Dean kissed him one more time, whispering as he pulled away, “Watch me, baby.”

And then Dean dropped back, bent over on his knees and holding Castiel’s cock to his mouth, spreading his lips and sliding his tongue over and up, and then, his eyes locked to Castiel’s, he lowered himself down.

Castiel moaned something alien in his throat, and Dean sucked back and down again, opening his jaw as wide as possible and pulling, lascivious sounds falling away from his mouth as Dean tucked as much wet and heat as he could into the business, pulling away to lick the whole of Cas’s cock over and over, before returning, the base of it practically shining from slick.

Look up, Dean told himself, look up, look up. See him, look at him, and make sure that he sees you. Cas’s hand, the one that had fingered the sheets in distress, was now pulled into Dean’s hair, intertwining with it there and occasionally, to Dean’s surprise, inflicting an entirely unconscious effort and direction on Dean’s rate--increase, decrease, harder, softer, faster. Dean did his best to listen, did his best to keep his mouth receptive, and to connect with Castiel all at once.

Fuck, he savored the direction, savored the pulse of Castiel in his mouth, the heat surrounding him, the sweat building up between them, the veins in Castiel’s stomach bulging. Dean went as low as he could, and though he did not have the talent of Castiel, he pushed himself to his limits and beyond.

He popped  away for only a moment, slapping Cas’s cock against his tongue before he dipped a finger into his mouth, sucked it and spit into his palm. He returned his lips around Castiel, listening to his moan turn into a full out groan as Dean rubbed his slicked hand against Castiel’s hole, and, this time, pressed a finger in.

He didn’t really know what he was doing--he had done some research, and understood the basic idea--but today he fought past any reservations and pushed himself deeper in, stunned at the tight, hot, dry heat, stunned at Castiel’s jaw flying open, the sound of him, at how he suddenly shifted and rolled his hips, ever so slightly, pulling Dean in and out of him.

He couldn’t stop staring at the action he had started, and the action he was doing. His heart was pounding in his chest, and a blaring white headline flicked across his eyes. This was as far as they had ever gotten. This was as close as Castiel had ever been.

And suddenly Dean, brought-to like a siren, snapped his eyes back up to Castiel, who was watching him, eyes wide and unblinking, and for two seconds, they were both completely still. And then Dean returned his lips to Castiel’s cock, and hummed his way down, pressing it against the back of his throat and moaning, sighing, pulling and sucking wildly. He forgot to move his finger, but Castiel’s hips were taking care of most of it. And eventually, the little rolls and swirls became bigger and bigger thrusts, and Dean stopped the motion of his neck as Castiel fucked his mouth, Cas’s hand holding his head in place as he thrust, thrust, thrust through Dean's lips.

Dean didn’t want to move from this spot, didn’t want to risk losing one second of this moment so rare, of watching Castiel get so much fucking pleasure from Dean and Dean’s body.  _Dean_  was giving this. He had never seen Castiel’s eyes lose it like that before, grow hazy and unfocused, almost crossing in their attempts not to shut, not to look away. They darted from his cock to Dean’s eyes, Dean’s face, and suddenly, his breathing changed.

And Dean thought that it was over; thought that Castiel was done, that it was good while it lasted-- _amazing_  while it lasted--and that maybe they were one step closer...

But that wasn’t what happened.

Cas’s hips thrust and held and something hot and wild struck Dean’s mouth and teeth, making him sputter in shock. He blinked up at Cas, who was frozen, collapsing inward on himself, so Dean pulled away and replaced Castiel’s motions with his hand, staring down as the fountain completely unleashed itself, hearing Castiel’s voice cry out in something akin to pain, and watching his face, his terrified, confused, fucked out and blissful face, his mouth a wide circle as helpless sound escaped him; he  _came_. And Dean worked him and worked him and let out a cry of exuberance, “Yes! Fuck yes, baby! Fucking come for me, Cas--come, baby...”

Cas’s ribs heaved, and eventually his body loosened, and nothing else appeared from him, but Dean still moved his hand, moved his lips down to kiss the top of Castiel’s cock, tasting the cum again now that he was prepared for it, sliding it up and down and through his fingers. Dean laughed, saying softly, “Holy shit, Cas... Oh my God...”

All was right--for three more glorious seconds, all was right: Castiel was slowly softening in Dean’s hands, and Dean watched his face glow--and then he saw Castiel’s eyes root themselves up to the ceiling, and change. His face grew red and then ashen; he shuddered. His breathing tightened, and he pulled his legs up as he rolled to the side, whispering something so quietly Dean had to lean his ears down right next to Cas’s lips to hear it: “Clean the sheets up... clean up... clean the sheets.”

Dean’s brow dropped. He backed away slightly, checking in with Castiel only to find someone he did not recognize at all, to watch Cas stand suddenly and say, practically shout, “ _Clean the sheets_.”

And Castiel disappeared across the hall into the bathroom.

Dean sat on his heels, dumbfounded. He stood up and halfway followed Castiel into the bathroom, when he heard the sound of the shower running. He processed Cas’s words again. Clean the sheets.

Ok, he could do that.

Completely mindless of what or why, Dean, fingers trembling, ripped every sheet off the bed, every shred of evidence of sex, and bunched them together, stepping out into the cold of the hallway and down the stairs. He tucked them into the washing machine, dropped in the soap, set it to go, and then stepped back, staring down at the white lid as he shut it.

He did not know what to do now.

So he did the only possible thing he could think of: he went back upstairs and knocked on the bathroom door.

No reply.

He knocked again, slightly louder, and when Castiel still said nothing, Dean stepped inside.

Steam was pouring out of the shower, the mirror completely fogged. Dean hesitated, shutting the door behind him carefully. “Cas? I put the sheets in the wash.” He took a few steps closer, gently peeling back the curtain. “Cas?”

Peering through the steam and the heat, Dean blinked for a moment, and then realized that Castiel wasn’t standing. He was crouched down, huddled in the water, his arms wrapped tightly around his knees. In two seconds, Dean was out of his underwear and stepping in front of Castiel, wincing and leaning around him to turn the heat down, lowering the water pressure as he did so. He sat down and placed his hands carefully on Castiel’s. “Cas, baby, what’s going on?”

Castiel shook his head vaguely, an almost imperceptible motion, and Dean saw the violent tremor of his shoulders as his breathing began to rush faster. Cas squeezed his fingertips to white, digging into his arms deeper and deeper. Dean stared at him and rubbed his palms firmly against Castiel’s arms, almost convinced Castiel couldn’t feel him at all. He shook him slightly, and Castiel’s breathing escalated wildly. Dean reached around and slammed the shower off, grabbing Castiel and pulling him in as close as he could.

The knot of Cas’s body shivered and shuddered, and Dean pet and whispered and soothed as best as he could, letting Cas ride it out, letting him shake, telling him gently over and over, “You can breathe, Cas. Breathe, sweetheart, breathe...”

“Dean...”

Dean heard his name squeaked through almost impassible vocal chords, and he buried his lips into Castiel’s wet hair, kissing and holding on, trying not to smother him, trying to just hold him up, to keep him breathing.

“Dean tell me--” Cas hiccoughed, and said again, so quiet Dean could barely hear him, “Tell me he’s not gonna find us. Please tell me.”

Dean blinked, his eyes wide. “I don’t... I don’t under...” He paused, then said, “He’s not gonna find us, Cas.”

“He’s not gonna find us?”

“No, he’s not.”

And after rocking Castiel a few more moments, it hit Dean like a lightning bolt exactly who they were talking about. His stomach fell completely out of him and his jaw dropped, the intersections of events winding themselves tighter and tighter in Dean’s mind until he grew dizzy. He swallowed hard, and spoke slowly, voice low and terrified, “He won’t find you, Cas. He can’t hurt you anymore. You’re safe, baby, you’re safe.”

Castiel unfolded in his arms and wrapped himself around Dean, tears cascading down his face and pouring across Dean’s chest as Dean leaned them back, holding Castiel as tightly as he could.

“He’s not gonna find us?”

“He’s not gonna find us.”

\-------------------------

Dean woke up at eight o’clock the next morning. He rolled over, eyes still shut, reaching for Castiel, who was not there. Quickly, Dean sat up, shuffling into his house slippers and robe and rushing downstairs. But his feet stilled on the steps as he discovered Castiel in the living room, seated backwards on the couch and peering out the window, his legs folded under him, sipping from a steaming mug. Dean continued down the stairs, the fear quieting within him.

They hadn’t said much to each other last night, after they got out of the bathtub and crossed the hall back into the bedroom. Castiel clung to Dean, grasping at his shoulders as he fought for the end of his panic, and he fell asleep with his ear over Dean’s heart. Dean had looked down at him for a long, long time, running his fingers through Castiel’s hair and tugging the blankets up higher around Cas’s chin. He didn’t remember falling asleep.

“Good morning.” Castiel said, still gazing outside. Dean stepped out of the foyer, rubbing a hand behind his neck.

“Morning. How are you feeling?”

Castiel blinked softly, tilting his head ever so slightly. “I am better.” He paused. “It’s snowing, Dean.”

“What?” Dean moved beside Cas, bending a knee to rest on the couch as he looked out the window as well. Sure enough, small, white flakes, barely enough to cling to the ground, were beginning their downward dance. “It wasn’t supposed to snow.”

“Well, there was a chance. 10%.”

Dean’s eyes flicked down to Cas, watching him. After a long moment, he said, “Our weathermen suck.”

The smile widened around Castiel’s lips, and he finally turned and met Dean’s eyes. “Yes, they do.”

His heart feeling a million times lighter, Dean reached a hand down, cupped Castiel’s cheek, and kissed him tenderly. When he pulled away, Castiel mumbled with a small grimace, “Morning breath.”

“Coffee breath.”

“Actually, I’m drinking tea. We’re out of coffee, remember?”

“Yeah, yeah...” Dean stood back up and walked to their Christmas tree in the corner, leaning down to plug in its lights. They didn’t have many ornaments, and the tree wasn’t very big at all, but it was their tree, and underneath it were their presents to each other. Dean had one, and Castiel the other. He hesitated, then bent down, picking up and carrying over his gift to Castiel, setting it gently on his knee.

“Merry Christmas.”

Cas looked down at the gift, and turned to Dean as he sat next to him. “You should go get yours.”

“I will in a second.” He nodded. “Open it.”

Castiel smiled softly, and then set his mug down on the coffee table, slipping his fingertips underneath the tape that Dean had haphazardly placed in too many places on the box. Dean laughed gently through his nose, and he shook his head. “Maybe one of these days you can teach me how to wrap things better.”

“Oh dear, I think that’s rather an impossible mission.”

Dean sighed, and then said, “Can you unwrap any slower?”

“Want to find out?”

Dean held up his hands and sank back into the couch, watching Castiel peel off each clumsy layer of brown paper, and open up the box. Dean stared at the little crease in his brow, the line that appeared between Castiel’s eyebrows as they contracted suddenly. A little, soft “Oh,” escaped Cas’s lips.

“Do you like it?”

“Yes, Dean.” He gazed down at the arrangement of packets: carrot seeds, green onions, cabbage, basil, tomato plants. Vegetables on the right, and flowers on the left, Castiel ran his fingers over them and then the small sheet of paper nestled in their middle. He unfolded it, staring at the diagram Dean had sketched out, the little garden plan that would live beside the house.

“If you want,” Dean said, “I mean, if you really do like it--as soon as the ground is soft enough, I’ll plant it with you, ok?”

Castiel looked up, and his eyes were brimming. “Ok.”

“Together?”

He reached out a hand and clasped at Dean’s knee. “Yes.”

“Merry Christmas, Cas.”

Castiel gave a small, watery laugh, and he whispered back, “Merry Christmas, Dean.”

And Castiel kissed him, and stood to make him a cup of tea, and then kissed him again one more time. Dean’s eyes watched him go, falling on the Nativity scene where Castiel must have, just this morning, placed the baby Jesus in its manger, beneath the angel hanging high, its arms still outspread, welcoming the morrow.


	16. Ghosts

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A shadow in the doorway; a shadow in the hall.

It was impossible for things to return to normal after Christmas Eve. Something integral had switched between Dean and Cas; a lever had flicked on, leaving the air permanently charged, almost vibrating with every breath they took.

Castiel was clearly in shock with the new reality presented to him; his body, for the first time in years, had not betrayed him. In the late hours of the afternoon or evening, he took to walking the house, his feet stepping aimlessly. Eventually, he would wander into whatever room Dean was in and stand near him. Sometimes, Cas left again without a word; sometimes he would lift his gaze from the ground, look up at Dean, and in those moments it was hell meeting his eyes.

Dean could witness thirty-five different thoughts and impulses cross his gaze, every one of them completely unrestrained, vividly apparent in the twitch of Castiel’s lips, in the dilation of his pupils. Stomach caught in his chest, Dean licked his lips in anticipation when, inevitably, Castiel would disappear, finding some other sort of distraction in the house. Dean watched him walk into the kitchen to clean the dishes by hand, a completely unnecessary task as the dishwasher stood empty.

As Cas washed each plate with undue aggression, Dean’s heart thundered in his chest and his spine alit with flame. His body was screaming out, touch and be touched; he had half a mind just to grab Castiel by the hips, turn him around, flatten him to that sink, and follow through with every unheeded action they both clearly wanted. Instead, Dean would shuffle off to the living room and throw himself onto the couch, a pillow clutched to his chest as he watched the television far too loudly.

Castiel still hadn’t spoke about any part of that night. Not his orgasm, nor what had happened after. Dean was filled with questions he did not feel he could ask. He bit his tongue and waited, watching, trying to understand the deeper workings of Castiel’s mind just by the way he picked up a book, or in the way he folded socks. Dean could only hope, through all of these moments of blackened confusion, his own silence and perseverance was an aid; but doing something by doing _nothing_ made Dean feel lost, out of place in the house, and more frustrated than he knew was fair.

The comfort came at night, when they would lie together on the bed, and Castiel would pull Dean in so close that Dean truly felt he could hear Castiel’s unspoken words. So he prayed to whatever God there was that Castiel could feel him answering back.

A week after Christmas, Castiel was stalking the house again like a ghost. Dean, in an attempt for solidarity, had removed himself from the immediate space and was sorting their laundry in the mudroom, fumbling with a load of darks as he switched them from the washer to the dryer. He had just set the dryer to run when he felt fingers suddenly caress his hips from behind.

Dean jumped--he hadn’t heard Castiel come in. “Hey,” he said.

“Hey...”

Dean felt Cas’s mouth meet the back of his neck, breathing hot against his skin, sending goosebumps up and down his arms. Dean shivered his shoulders involuntarily. Castiel’s hands were working their way up Dean’s chest, splaying his fingers, running up and down and around. Too much temptation for too long unmet, and Dean was suddenly rock hard. He shut his eyes and dropped his head back to Castiel’s shoulder, feeling Castiel’s teeth bite and nip, lips curving around and sucking fast, trailing evidence behind in indecent purple marks. Castiel’s hands slid down to Dean’s front and unhooked the top button and zipper of his jeans. And the small bit of caution--the slow pace of the lead in--was suddenly and completely abandoned.

Dean whirled around, fingers rushing to pull down Castiel’s zipper, anxious to get lost in other things--Castiel’s hair, Castiel’s face, the skin on his back that needed to be clawed, that needed to be _red_. They had never kissed with such little finesse before, with so little attempt at art--but Dean didn’t care, he didn’t care one damn bit. Tongues, teeth, cheek; Dean would exhale and Castiel would inhale, and even though Dean could not swallow Castiel completely, he was doing the best he fucking could. Dean didn’t know when Castiel had pulled their cocks out except that it had already happened; he was fucking drunk on this, high on this, and his hips had not one stitch of control, nothing was holding him back.

Castiel grappled with Dean’s hands, tugging them down to his ass, so Dean obliged, gripping and pulling. He shot a hand down between the gap at Cas’s back and his gaping jeans, pushing his fingers as low as they could go, reaching for him, digging for him, listening to the uncontrolled sounds Castiel was making and hearing himself harmonize without a second thought.

With both hands he grabbed and lifted, spinning Castiel up and around, setting him down on the humming dryer. Castiel knitted his legs together behind Dean, pressing forward until they fit together again, sliding his hand into a circle around their cocks and gripping tight. Dean, grunting, thrust his hips heavy and fast, braced against the dryer, fighting for control as Castiel buried his teeth into Dean’s shoulder. Dean slid his hands under Cas, listening to his air, his moans, his shudders, to the steady stream of breath that coursed from him and caught suddenly, his lips forming and re-forming. Dean pulled his hands up to Castiel’s face, stilled his hips, and as Castiel’s hand began moving between them, Dean watched the veins go in Castiel’s neck, watch the haze in his eyes grow again as Castiel came.

Some kind of shout was said between them, a victory that didn’t stop. Cas’s fingers tripped over themselves as he shuddered, so Dean replaced his hand, twisting firmly, pulling fast to earn everything from Cas and to take himself there as well, climbing higher and higher until he broke; Dean spilled up, falling away to Castiel’s shoulder, his voice tumbling from his throat as he came out and over, rolling his hips, sliding his hand up and down the two of them slower and slower.

They panted, leaning together, the world a dizzying spiral. Dean lifted his head slowly, and a sudden, breathless laughter escaped from the man in front of him. Cas bent slightly and caught Dean’s lips. “Dean,” he whispered, then “Dean,” again, even softer.

“Yes, baby..?” Dean’s eyes were shut--he pressed his forehead to Castiel’s, his shoulders still heaving, his voice foreign in his ears, dark and ragged. He took hold of Castiel’s hand, clutching their dripping fingers together, shaking.

Castiel pressed their mouths together, running his free hand along Dean’s cheek, pulling him closer in. “We’re a mess...”

“That’s fine. That is fucking fine.” Dean shook his head, clasping his other hand to Castiel’s neck, clinging there with sincerity. “It is fucking awesome.”

Castiel moaned, his head rolling forward. “Yeah?”

“Yeah.”

“Dean...” Castiel said again, and again, and again, kissing him between each, a liturgy he clung to. It chilled Dean to the bone as much as it heated him. He opened his mouth to speak, but Castiel interrupted him, his voice almost trancelike and his eyes closed. “I want to feel you. Everywhere.”

“Mmm...” Dean rubbed his forehead against Cas’s, nuzzling him.

“I want you inside me, Dean.”

Dean pulled back, the conversation’s sudden turn making him open his eyes wide to stare at Cas. Dean swallowed, speaking low. “Don’t we need some kind of, you know, lubricant for that?”

Castiel leaned to the side, teetering over as if drunk, and he bit his lips. “We do.”

“Do we... do we have any of that?”

“Nope.” Castiel laughed gently. “Didn’t think I’d ever have a need for it.”

“Oh.” Dean paused. “Should I go to the store, or..?”

“It doesn’t have to be right this second, Dean.”

“Oh. Okay.”

Castiel grinned at him, and finally his eyes focused, seeing through the clouds of his orgasm and able to meet Dean’s gaze head on. “I just wanted to know if that’s something you would even be interested in. I mean, we’ve ever only done, well, what we’ve done, so it’s alright if you’re not--”

Dean interrupted him by nodding fervently. “No no, I, uh... I am very interested.”

“Yeah?”

“Yes.”

It may have been absurd to blush, seeing as they were both covered in each other, their members were exposed, and Dean’s pants were about to fall down to his knees, but blush they did. Dean ducked his head a bit as they laughed, bumping into Castiel’s shoulder. He took a deep breath and whispered there, “Cas,” completely unaware of the sound of his own prayer uttered into the dark.

After a long moment, Castiel said gently. “We should shower.”

“Ok...”

“You want to join me?”

Dean leaned back and glanced up at Castiel, discovering the mischievous grin set across his face. Dean blinked, smiling. “Already?”

“I think about five minutes of seeing you naked ought to do the trick, yes.” Castiel said matter-of-factly.

“Well.” Dean smiled. “Hallelujah for Christmas miracles.”

Castiel pulled a face then, and Dean laughed outright, shucking away his clothes.  “We’d better get you started right away then.” He took a good moment to teasingly stretch his arms and legs, giving an exaggerated wink and wriggling his fingers out to Castiel, who, after stripping naked himself, took Dean’s hand and followed him up the stairs. “You can’t wink, did you know that?”

“What? Yes I can.”

“Half of your face just disappears and both eyes close. That’s not winking, Dean, that’s a facial tick.”

“Alright, that’s it, I’m putting my clothes back on.”

But Castiel latched onto his arm and ran ahead, tugging Dean into the bathroom with a giggle and swallowing any other comment with his lips.

\-----------------------------------

The days faded into months, and suddenly it was February; the cold settled permanently into their bones as winter proudly strode into its harshest month. There didn’t seem to be a moment in which there wasn’t ice on the roads, or the threat of snowflakes in the air. The restaurant was long since shut down for the winter, the road up the mountain becoming so inconsistently travel-able that a reliable schedule was simply impossible to devise. Dean felt like he chanced each and every trip he made downtown to the grocery store, or to his apartment for fresh supplies and a visit with Sam and Bobby; he kept a weather eye on the salting trucks and the ever-changing dew point.

The remoteness of the house, while frustrating when they realized they were running low on toilet paper, was not begrudged in their other moments, especially considering how much time the pair of them spent naked, and how little time was spent outside of the bedroom.

In a weird way, it somehow felt backwards to Dean--being sexually inseparable was something that was supposed to happen in the earlier months of a relationship, and then taper off later into something more understood and less frantic. And while Castiel assured him one day that they were still quite newly coupled in terms of months, it did not feel that way to Dean. He felt like he’d known Castiel his whole life, that he’d been by his side for forever but had only just now been able to see him.

This was quite an overwhelming feeling, which Dean naturally did not know how to articulate. Especially when he realized there were still so many dark parts to Castiel hidden in shadow and locked away, parts Castiel seemed more than reluctant to reveal. Everyday was an experiment. If Dean wasn’t experimenting sexually, then he was testing Cas in some new way, trying to understand without triggering, trying to open up his lover with more than just his hands.

In fact, the first time Dean ever entered Castiel was a by-product of one of those small experiments. Dean had left his plate out after pancakes. It sat on the dining table, covered in syrup that sopped into the few spare pancake crumbs bunched sporadically along its ceramic face. He leaned back in his chair, sighing with satisfaction, and then got up to go into the living room. Castiel stared at him. “Aren’t you going to put that in the dishwasher?”

Dean paused, then shrugged. “In a minute.”

“It’s got syrup on it, Dean. It at least needs to soak.”

Again, Dean hesitated. Then, “Nah, I’ll just get to it later.”

He walked into the living room, sat down on the couch, and had just flicked on the television when he heard Castiel grumble something, grab the plate, and start to move it to the sink. In seconds, Dean was up again and in the kitchen, snatching the plate away from Cas. “I said I’ll get it later.”

“What the hell, Dean?”

“Just leave it.”

Castiel’s jaw dropped, and then he very resolutely said, “No,” and grabbed the plate back.

At least he tried to, anyway; Dean held it fast. Neither one of them were completely serious, but neither were joking, so as they tried to wrestle the plate from each other, backing their way up to the sink, their eyes latched together furiously.

“Just let it go, Cas.”

“No.”

“I can wash it later--”

“You can wash it now--”

“Jesus, you can’t have one thing out of place, can you? Everything has to be--”

“Shut up! Just--” Castiel ripped the plate away, dropped it into the sink, and clasped his hands to Dean’s face, his fingers sticky from syrup. “Just shut up...” He kissed him hard and fast.

Dean didn’t know if moments like these were specific to he and Cas; perhaps these experiments weren’t so much a personal hunting expedition as it was the average learning process of living with someone. But with Castiel’s tongue against his, Dean wasn’t about to question his actions.

“Upstairs in two minutes,” said Cas, breathless. “Meet me.”

“Two minutes.”

And Castiel was gone, and Dean leaned against the sink, bracing himself on its antique white edge and feeling his heart pound. Thirty seconds... Dean knew what would happen when he got upstairs. One minute. He could hear the sounds of Castiel in the bathroom above him and tried not to think about it, but couldn’t _stop_ thinking about it--one minute thirty--fucking Cas--fuck Cas--be completely surrounded by Cas...

Two minutes.

By the time his feet landed him clumsily in the bedroom doorway, Castiel was naked, on the bed, and glaring at him. “Two minutes isn’t enough time for you to get undressed?”

So Dean quickly repaired that. And even though the heat was on high, he shivered, his eyes alighting to the bottle of lube in Castiel’s hand, barely having time to truly reconcile his brain to the idea, before Castiel had stood and dragged Dean down on top of him.

It was a process Dean had thought he understood, but Castiel had to slow him down and walk him through certain bits, which shouldn’t have been humiliating but was. Dean turned red in the ears when Castiel had to stop him from just diving right in. “You have to open me, Dean.”

“What?”

Cas held up two fingers and v-ed them slowly.

“Oh.”

Castiel soothed his ego, and with enough kisses and soft moans, Dean was back on track. He asked questions, and Castiel answered him without one bit of embarrassment, his brain speaking as frankly and as scientifically as possible. Dean couldn’t decide if he was irritated or turned on by it. He was definitely, however, turned on by pushing his fingers in, one after the other, and watching Castiel react. Watching his eyes shut and the little hiccups in his brow.

“Deeper,” purred Cas, and Dean obeyed. And eventually he grew to understand that, while Castiel enjoyed the penetration in general, there was definitely _a_ spot, _a_ place that made Cas’s legs quiver and pulled the most insane sound from him, so intoxicating that Dean’s lust burned straight through his chest and fire-rocketed to every corner of his body.

Finally ready, Castiel relaxed and on his knees with his hands braced against the headboard, Dean slid on a condom and lubed himself up, his fingers teasing over his straining cock, and he buried himself slowly inside Cas.

And it was something completely different.

It was fucking hot, slick, and tight, fucking tighter than Dean thought he had ever been held; it felt like Cas was swallowing him whole, pulling him in and in, and suddenly Dean realized that was because he was in. He had bottomed out in Castiel and his world was fucking stars.

He got carried away. He lost himself to bliss, mad on the sound of Castiel whining like that, lost on the sea of insanity that was the feel of Castiel holding him so fucking tight, deep in the heat and the blessed friction that drug him solidly and loudly home; he came before Cas.

Mortified as he tripped back up to reality, Dean slipped out of Castiel by accident, and then Cas, collapsing on his stomach, rolled over to look up at Dean, and then suddenly disappeared into the bathroom. Dean did not think he could blush more or feel worse when he realized what was going on behind that closed door. Crashing from the high, he buried his face in the pillows until Castiel reappeared.

“I am so sorry,” he said quickly. “I am so, so sorry, I--”

“Dean...” Castiel petted him. “You didn’t do anything wrong.”

“Yes I did, I came too soon, and you just had a--a-- _you know_ \--and--did I hurt you or something?”

Castiel stared at him for a moment, and then burst out laughing. “No, Dean. You didn’t hurt me. That just...” he paused, gesturing to the bathroom. “Movement happens sometimes. And it’s been awhile since I’ve done this, so...” He shrugged. “My body just reacted.”

“So you’re not... you’re not hurt?”

Castiel reached out a hand and slicked back the worry from Dean’s sweated brow, trailing his fingers through the wet hair. “No. No, I’m not.”

“Did it feel...” And Dean flushed. “Did I feel...?”

“Good?”

Dean nodded.

Castiel’s eyes lowered, suddenly heated again, and he leaned forward to flick his tongue against Dean’s lips. “You felt amazing.”

A few more moments of kissing and Dean grabbed Castiel, swinging him around to lay back on the bed. Dean sucked him off for as long as he could and the best that he could, taking in every last bit of cum Cas could give and more.

If Dean lamented his experience level that night, or any of the nights following, he certainly set himself on the right course to fixing it. Finally united in sexual release, they would clasp hands and stare into each others eyes, discovering the pathways to each other’s climaxes, learning how one twitch of their body in a certain way sent complete shivers down the other. It was absolutely the most physically connected Dean had ever felt to another living person in his entire life; he felt like he was walking through fire, unburnt as the days slipped by.

Castiel’s heart opened itself slowly, one stitch at a time, until finally, one night, as they lay in each other’s sweat, breathing heavily and coming down from the high of each other, Castiel whispered softly to Dean through the dark, “Do you remember...”

He paused, staring down at his fingers as they danced across Dean’s chest. Dean tilted his head down to look at him properly.

“Hmm?”

“Do you remember when I told you about my history? On the porch swing downstairs?”

Dean nodded.

“I had told that story before, you know. I’ve...” He shifted his head. “It’s not the first time I’ve told someone that.” He took a deep breath. “It’s a summation, really. That alone makes it easier. And when you say a speech like that more than once, it’s like.. it’s almost like I’m someone else when I say it.”

Dean hesitated, but Castiel spoke again. “Summation of a whole; broken down parts, highlighted and edited. But the parts I remove...” He shook his head, shutting his eyes. “Those parts are the real things. And I push and push them away, every time thinking oh, it’s _finally_ gone.”

“Cas...” Dean took a deep breath. “It isn’t as gone as you think. Not to me, anyway.”

Castiel looked up at him then, his eyes darting back and forth across Dean’s face. Dean swallowed. “I see it on you. And if you ever want to talk about it, any of it, I’m here.”

Castiel’s lips parted. He took a deep breath, as if to speak, and then let it out. “I don’t know how to.”

“Tell it one story at a time.”

Castiel looked down, watching Dean take his hand and hold it close to his chest. “Which story do I tell?”

“Whichever one you need to. Whichever one you were thinking about just now that made you say all this.”

“What I was thinking about...” Castiel stopped and squeezed his eyes shut. He rolled himself half-over Dean, burying his head into the shadows by Dean’s ear, breathing, “I can’t look at you when I say this.”

“That’s ok.”

“I was...” Cas sighed. “I was thinking about--” Cas shuddered, and his voice shook, growing smaller and smaller. “How uncomfortable the elastic band was on my pants when I was a kid at school. Because he would hit me, and the waistband sat right across it, so...” Castiel gestured behind himself vaguely, before returning his arm over Dean’s chest and wrapping his fingers around Dean’s shoulder. “It kept pressing and it hurt so much--my clothes never fit, they were always too small, too tight. Stained. I tried so hard to get those stains out because I would get in trouble for them. Any excuse, really, any...”

He trailed off, and he was silent for so long that Dean thought the story was done. He felt the spot on the pillow beneath them growing wet, and he pulled his arms up around Cas, tugging him in.

“He didn’t like me. I...” Castiel paused. “I repulsed him. You know, he kept saying, he kept saying...” Castiel’s voice was a full tremor now, and Dean just hugged him closer. “He would say, you know, God’s watching you, Castiel. _God sees what you do, you little faggot. You little_... God’s watching you. And I just thought, I would think, isn’t God watching you? Doesn’t God see what you do?”

Castiel was shaking, and he turned his head just slightly more toward Dean, lowering his voice as his licked his lips. “And I believed him, too. I just... if God could see us, could see everything, then my dad had to be right about me, you know? So I didn’t talk to God anymore, because he had to hate me too. I prayed to angels, I prayed to Jesus. I prayed to the Archangel Gabriel, the one who spoke to Mary, I prayed that he would come down and save me one day, would stand between me and my father, hold out his hand and say, ‘Sir!’” Castiel’s voice rose, quivering, his hand clutching into a fist. “‘Sir, you do _wrong_!’ And my father would stop. He would _have_ to stop. And he would fall to his knees and weep in the heavenly light. And life would be better.

“But no one ever came.”

They were still for a long moment as the silence settled over them and Castiel’s breathing slowly calmed. Dean’s hands shook; he pressed one against his forehead, wiping at his eyes, and he turned more fully to Castiel, encompassing him completely, wrapping him up in legs and arms. One hand found the small of Castiel’s back and flattened itself there, as if the bruise of years ago still remained and Dean could mend it. He murmured gently, almost reflexively, protectively, “It’s ok, Cas. I got you.”

Castiel shook his head ever so slightly, drawing up his arms to his chest, digging himself deeper into Dean, his voice distant but kind as he said, “But you don’t, Dean. No one does.”

Dean’s eyes snapped open, because he did not know what to make of that. He was chilled, staring into the dark and holding Castiel to him like a stone, as if Castiel weren’t moving at all, not even breathing. Castiel snaked an arm between them, lifting up the blanket and covering them both, encasing them together.

Somehow, they fell asleep, and the next morning, so early the sun hadn’t yet risen, Dean was awakened by Castiel’s mouth against his, kissing him tenderly. Cas climbed on top of Dean, who grunted pleasantly and rolled onto his back. Knitting their bodies together, Castiel rode his hips against Dean’s, reaching down to slide a fist around the pair of them. Dean’s cock responded and his mind responded, slipping itself away from sleep and making his hand grab for the small pile of condoms on the nightstand.

Castiel helped him to reach, separating their bodies to fetch the condom and the lubricant, settling himself back down quickly, keeping the residual heat trapped in the sheets as long as possible. Dean reached down, latching onto Castiel’s cheeks and prying them apart, dipping a finger into the dark, exposed crevasse; Castiel was still loose from last night, so there wasn’t much to be done to get him ready, but Dean set about it with urgency.

He grabbed Castiel’s thighs and lifted; Cas sat forward, lifting himself up slightly on his knees so it would be easier for Dean to reach through his legs. Dean snatched the bottle of lubricant from Castiel’s waiting hand, slicked his fingers, and went to work.

Cas sighed, the first hint of his voice at all this morning, reaching over Dean and gripping at the headboard to balance himself as Dean, a touch roughly, angled three fingers deep inside him.

Castiel threw his head back, biting his lips and staring up at the ceiling, his breath sounding in hot puffs and Dean moved his hand up and down, wriggling his fingers in a wave back and forth. Dean could feel Cas bearing down to greet him, bearing down to stretch and accept his hand, so Dean pulled away, slipping from him with an obscene sound, making Castiel whimper.

Scooting back again, Cas, with his unwetted hands, opened the condom wrapper. He notched himself further down, coming to a stop around Dean’s knees, and suddenly he bent over, settling his thumb and forefinger around the base of Dean’s cock, flicking his tongue against its tip.

Dean bit down hard on his lips with a grunt; he hadn’t been expecting Castiel’s mouth, the heat of his breath, and it caused Dean’s hips to shift upwards violently. Castiel grinned and opened his lips, spreading them hot and wet over Dean and sucking down. Dean shot a hand up to Castiel’s hair, burying itself and knotting there, holding Castiel’s head in place. He thrust his hips up and down, fucking Castiel’s mouth and feeling Cas’s wanton moan echo around his cock.

Castiel popped away, moving quick, staring down at Dean’s dick with such blatant desire it made Dean go mad to see it. He took the condom out from its wrapper, and with loving fingers, rolled it down the length of Dean’s penis. Sliding his lips up and down it once more, twice more, he kissed its tip and then suddenly straightened, walking forward on his knees to straddle Dean’s thighs.

The blankets had long since fallen away from them, cold air gripping their skin unnoticed. Dean watched Castiel’s outline in the dark, watched as he gripped Dean’s cock into place and positioned himself over it. Dean sat up slightly, reaching out and fingering Cas’s cock gently in his hand. As Castiel pressed Dean against his entrance, Dean stroked, hearing the music of Cas's gasp as his hole gave way.

They took a beat and hummed together; Castiel snapped his eyes down to Dean’s, reaching out to take both of Dean’s hands to brace himself, slowly lowering down until Dean was in him to the hilt. Castiel lay his chest flat over Dean’s, rolling his hips forward and back, circling, thrusting forward so that Dean could feel the grind of Castiel’s cock against his belly.

Dean didn’t want to slip out, so he stretched down, clasping Castiel’s ass to hold him fast, bending his knees to angle his hips better, to move in return against Castiel, pumping steadily in and out of him. Castiel’s jaw dropped and he arched his neck back, releasing a full sound and wrapping his thumbs around Dean’s face, his fingers digging themselves into the back of Dean’s head. They stared at each other, moving slow and deliberate for as long as they could stand it, Dean feeling the tick in his brow, feeling his jaw open and close over and over. He pulled Castiel’s head down to his, shuttering their tongues together until they couldn’t breathe anymore and had to pull away. And when they did, Castiel looked down and heaved himself upright, flying his arms back to latch onto Dean’s knees as he took over the motion.

Castiel bounced, taking Dean in entirely, changing his rhythm to occasionally slide Dean almost all the way out and then slam back down again. Dean moved his hand down, once again grasping at Castiel’s cock but pulling on it roughly now, fisting quick and dirty as Castiel picked up the pace. They slapped together now, the sound of it completely maddening, coupling with their grunts and gasps, the high pitched moan that would escape from Castiel as he slammed down, circled his hips, and then lifted again. “Dean!” he cried, and with the first word uttered a wall came tumbling down.

“Oh fuck yes, baby,” Dean groaned, his teeth gritting together.

“Dean,” Cas said again, shutting his eyes. Twenty-thousand different things were said in that one word, and fuck if Dean didn’t feel like he heard them all.

“Cas, you’re so fuckin’ tight, you’re so good, Jesus Christ...”

“Dean...”

“I love this, I fuckin love this so much--Jesus, I love you...”

Castiel tipped forward, and Dean knew his cue, knew that he should grab Castiel’s thighs and go mad, slamming himself up into Castiel over and over, as fast as he fucking could, his abdomen straining, his eyes glued to Castiel, watching his eyes shut, his hand working his own cock, the spread of his lips as the first throes of his explosion burst from him. Castiel called out and Dean kept going, aiming to rip straight through Castiel just to see him come again and again and again. _I love you_ , he thought, his brain white hot and flying up and up and up. _I love you, I love you_.

And as Castiel clenched down around Dean, his body seizing in its spasm, Dean’s hips thrust and held and he came, pouring into Cas as he resumed motion again--sporadic, wild, frenzied motion--letting out an ungodly cry and feeling Castiel swallow it with his tongue, burying deep into Dean’s mouth and living there.

They fell together, lips quivering, legs shaking, chests heaving. Cas held Dean within him for as long as he could, but as Dean softened he slipped out on his own, the slick from the lubricant doing its work. Castiel straightened his legs, reaching down to tug away the condom and toss it aside, and he flattened himself over Dean, kissing his throat, his jaw, his mouth again.

_I love you_ , Dean thought. And he had said it. Whether or not Castiel had heard him, or even understood it to be more than just a sex-driven confession, he did not know. But Dean knew now. Dean knew, and his heart was thundering in his head. Fucking _duh_ , it said. Fucking duh you love him--you have always loved him.

The most terrifying thing in the world sat on his lips, and Dean couldn’t say it, couldn’t do anything but kiss Castiel again and again, licking the pattern of the words across Cas’s tongue and hoping that he understood, hoping he felt the same way, hearing the echo of Castiel’s words from last night boring their way into his head, _But you don’t, Dean. No one does._

\-- _Yes, I do_.

They fell asleep again, curled into each other, Dean’s lips pressed against Castiel’s temple, his hands settling over Castiel’s heart, feeling it beat beneath his fingertips.

Five hours later, the sun streaming in through the curtains, Dean jumped awake to the sound of a knock on the door.

Gasping slightly, he blinked, looking down to Cas, whose eyes were already open, staring confusedly into the ceiling. The knock came again. Castiel slowly made to get up and Dean made to follow, but was stayed with a hand to his chest. “I’ll be right back.”

“Want me to...”

“No, it’s ok.”

Castiel grabbed a robe from the back of the bedroom door, swung it open, and slipped around the corner down the stairs. Dean took a deep breath and stretched, listening to the sound of the door opening and the muffled sounds of conversation. He stilled, struggling to catch full words, the consonants trapped between the walls. The person at the door, a man, asked a question. “Mr. Novak?” it sounded like, although that didn’t make any sense to Dean, so he blinked again, trying to force his mind more awake.

“Yes?”

That was Cas. And there seemed something off about his voice. Dean sat up, rubbing at his eyes and frowning.

“Package for you. If you could sign for it...”

There was a long pause, and then Dean heard a “Have a nice day,” from the stranger, the shutting of the front door, and the sound of a large truck trundling away.

Well, that made sense. A package had to be delivered. So they had to come all the way up the hill to knock on the door. Dean took a deep breath and turned his eyes expectantly on the bedroom door, but Castiel did not appear. Dean sighed, then stood up, grabbing his own robe and tying it about his waist, almost tripping down the stairs in his stupor. He rounded the corner, looking for Castiel in the living room, the kitchen, discovering him in the dining room.

Castiel was standing, staring down at the shoe-box sized brown package sitting on the dining room table. Dean came up behind him, put a hand to Castiel’s shoulder, and felt him jump a mile high.

“Didn’t mean to scare you.”

“It’s alright.”

“You got a package?” Dean reached both hands up, beginning to knead the tense muscles beneath Castiel’s shoulders.

“Yes.”

“What did you order?”

“I didn’t order anything.”

For the first time, Dean heard the slightly robotic tone to Castiel’s voice, and he stepped forward, peering around to catch his eyes. “You ok?”

Castiel, still looking down at the box, blinked up suddenly, breathing deep. “Yes, I--sorry.”

“Somebody must’ve sent you something pretty nice to need a signature, huh?” Dean grinned. “Got any other boyfriends I should be worried about?”

Castiel did not smile back, and when Dean nonchalantly turned around to pick the package up, Castiel started towards him, reaching out a hand as if to stop him, then freezing.

“Castiel... Novak?” Dean read. His brow furrowed. “Who the hell is that?”

He looked over at Cas, who blinked at him and then shrugged suddenly. “I don’t know.”

“Why’d you sign for it, then?”

“Well, I--I mean, Castiel isn’t exactly a common name. And the address is correct.”

Dean shook his head. He felt drugged, sleep still working its fingers through his brain and confusing him. He vaguely remembered the _Yes?_ he had heard at the door, but he shrugged it off, wandering into the kitchen to brew some coffee.

“What,” called Castiel after him. “Hasn’t anyone ever gotten _your_ name wrong?”

“Not really,” said Dean, emptying the grinds from yesterday and putting in a fresh filter. “Of course my name’s not that difficult. Winchester, like the gun, and Dean.” He paused, leaning thoughtfully against the counter. “I did get a ‘Dan’ written down though, once.”

Castiel nodded, and then looked down at the package again. Dean gestured to it. “Open it.”

“No, I can... I can wait.”

“Well, I can’t. I’m curious.” Dean grinned. “What did this mystery person get you?”

Castiel blinked and worked his jaw, and for one strange moment Dean thought he saw a shadow crossing from the hall to settle across Castiel’s shoulders. Dean shook his head.

Slowly, Castiel walked to a drawer in the kitchen, pulled out the scissors, and set to work on the package. Dean turned around, filling the coffee maker with water and setting it to brew, listening to the sounds of tape being sliced open. He reached up to the cabinet and got out two mugs, setting them down on the counter before he sauntered back to Castiel’s side and looked down into the box. “What the hell?”

He blinked at Castiel, who was sliding his hands into his robe pockets, his mouth a solid line. “There’s nothing in here,” Dean said.

“So it would seem.”

Dean looked down at the cardboard box and then picked it up, shaking it as it some sort of secret would tumble out. “What the fuck?”

“I don’t know.”

Rolling his eyes and huffing irritably, Dean took the box and walked it back into the mudroom. “I’m just gonna toss this then, if you don’t mind.”

“Not at all, no.”

Dean chucked it into the waste bin, hesitated, then picked it up and moved it over to the recycling. He strolled back into the kitchen. “That was a pretty stupid reason to wake up. I was having a nice dream.”

“I wasn’t.”

Dean glanced over at Castiel. In the days that would come, Dean would remember the look on his face and kick himself repeatedly for not noticing, for not really seeing, for not stopping himself and the awful, overwhelming happiness that dominated his mind. He would kick himself for not making Castiel tell him the truth when he asked, “You ok?”

Castiel blinked in slow-motion, closing his wide, haunted eyes, licked his dry, open lips, and looked back at Dean. “Yes, I’m fine. I’m just tired.”

And Dean accepted it. He accepted it because it had been a rough night, and they had had a wild morning. Because he was in love, and because he was stupid. He nodded, poured himself and Cas a cup of coffee, walking it over to him and kissing his temple. “I think I’m gonna go shower, yeah?”

“Yeah. Ok.”

“You wanna join me?” Dean waggled his eyebrows.

Castiel gave a small laugh and said softly, “No, thank you. I’m still a little spent.”

“Fair enough.” Dean kissed him, and he should have kissed him deeper, should have made it last a thousand years. And he should have told him. Maybe it would have made a difference.

Castiel kissed him back. He kissed him too long and too softly to have been something as simple as a good morning, but Dean didn’t notice. Fuck all, but he didn’t notice, nor did he see the tenderness with which Castiel gazed at him as he went up the stairs.

When Dean got out of the shower, Castiel was gone.


	17. The Hour I First Believed

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Time can never kill the true heart.

Steam was curling upwards, pouring itself into every crevasse of the bathroom, so heavy that the room itself became white. The water, cascading with glorious pressure on his skin, was so hot that Dean’s shoulders burned red, the freckles there baring themselves in stark contrast. White, hot, blinding. He was deaf as well, the roar of the water coupling with his voice as he sang out, at first in a hum and then full-on, savoring each cheesy lyric to REO Speedwagon’s  _Keep On Lovin’ You_. There was a smile on his face as he felt every word, expecting each note of the song to crawl its way under the door and summon Castiel, changing his mind, making him peel back the curtain to join Dean under the water after all.

Dean’s shower took all of ten minutes. Washing his hair, singing into the shampoo bottle, scrubbing against his skin and face, then slowly letting the water run it all away. Another five passed when Dean stepped out and leaned over the sink, pawing away at the fog on the mirror to shave and brush his teeth.

Dean wrapped his robe around his shoulders, opened the door, and padded barefoot across the cold hallway floor into their bedroom. He suddenly paused; he thought of it as  _their_  bedroom--not Castiel’s bedroom, or even  _the_  bedroom--but theirs, and that felt right. Dean smiled, looked down at their bed, and pulled up the sheets and quilts, tucking them in over the pillows and brushing away the folds and creases.

Dean took a minute to pick out what shade of flannel looked best coupled with his green thermal; he shuffled his legs and feet into lined jeans and wool socks. He toweled off his hair, grabbed his coffee mug from where it rested on the bathroom counter, and hung the towel back on its rung.

Time altogether: twenty minutes. Twenty minutes before Dean’s feet reached the bottom step and he said, “Hey Cas, you wanna get lunch in town today?” Twenty minutes before Dean even discovered that Castiel was gone.

Dean frowned. “Cas?” He walked through the dining room, setting his coffee mug down on the table and looked around for a note; there was none. He crossed the threshold into the kitchen, peering at the fridge. A small stack of notes was already collected on its face, Dean to Cas or Cas to Dean, informing each other that they were going to get milk, to pick up dinner, to run to the bank. Castiel had kept each one. They were pinned together underneath a small, circular, red magnet, their yellows, blues, and pinks fanning out as their corners frayed together, having been thumbed through often in remembrance. It wouldn’t have been logical to find a new message placed among them, but Dean checked anyway.

His brows knit themselves together gently, forming a small crease between his eyes as he wandered vaguely toward the front door and opened it. “Hey, Cas?”

Cold wind whipped around him as he stepped out onto the porch, looking left, then looking right. “Cas?” he said again, confused. Once more, nothing replied. The breeze kicked the porch-swing into motion and Dean’s eyes darted there, half expecting to see Castiel appear from around the corner.

“Cas?” Dean called out this time. Only the tree branches issued a response, arching their fingers toward him, silent as ever.

With no shoes on his feet, Dean hopped down to the frozen ground and jogged around the house, wincing as the cold, melted frost began to seep its way through his socks. As he rounded the bend, he could see that the garage door on the left was standing wide open, and Castiel’s car was not there.

Oh. He had gone out.

Dean rolled his eyes. “Could have said something,” he muttered, and he turned around to head back inside, wrapping his arms tightly around his chest as the wind nipped his exposed skin. Shutting the door behind him, shivering, Dean pulled out his phone and called Castiel, pressing the speaker to his ear as he made his way into the kitchen to refresh his coffee.

“ _You have reached the voice messaging system of Castiel Allen. I am unable to answer the phone right now, but if you leave a message..._ ”

Dean mouthed along with the end of the recording, bobbing his head as he poured still hot coffee into his now cool mug. The recorder gave a loud beep, and then Dean said, “Hey Cas--guess you went out. If you’re stopping by the store, can you get me some toothpaste? I keep using yours and I know you hate that.” Dean grinned. “Oh and--while you’re at it...” His voice trailed off mischievously. “Pick up a pie? Don’t care what kind. Gimme a call back when you can. Bye.”

Dean shut the phone, still smiling; it was 10:30 in the morning.

Sipping his coffee, Dean sat himself down in front of the TV. A college basketball game was on; not Dean’s favorite sport to watch, but it was two teams he thought played fairly well. He leaned back into the cushions, stretched out his legs, and without being aware of it at all, one hour ticked away.

The game had proven itself to be quite riveting--during the commercial breaks, he would switch to a house realty show on another channel that was pretty damn entertaining as well. Dean hadn’t felt the time passing, so it was with some surprise that he checked his watch, saw the hour, and realized that Castiel had still not called him back. It was almost noon, and Dean was getting hungry. He frowned, irritated. It would have been nice to get out of the house and eat lunch with Castiel downtown. But if Cas was off doing something somewhere else and wasn’t calling, then Dean sure as hell wasn’t going to wait for him to eat.

A few minutes later, Dean had pieced together a sandwich from the turkey, lettuce, tomato, and bread they had in the fridge. The cheese, it turned out, had gone bad, which was a shame. Thankfully Dean noticed the mold before he took a bite. He sent a small text to Castiel. -- _Pick up cheese too? Cheddar gone bad. FYI, I’m eating lunch here_. 

The basketball game returned from its halftime; Dean eagerly rushed back to the couch, eating his sandwich and passing yet another hour alone. And when the end of that hour came, when the game was at an end and the house-hunting show had unfortunately switched to something less appealing and very talky, Dean turned off the television. For the first time, he heard how quiet the house was; even the wind outside did not stir.

Dean frowned deeply. And he looked down at his phone, his brow furrowing. Castiel still had not called, nor had he responded to the text. If he was going to be out of the house for this long, why didn’t he say something or leave a note? Dean sent another text.  _\--You there?_

By the time thirty minutes had passed, Dean could no longer either entertain or distract himself; he wanted to get out of the house and go into town. Thinking that perhaps his texts had not sent correctly, he called Castiel. But at the sound of Castiel’s voicemail once again, he hung up. He had already left a message this morning, and there wasn’t much else to add. Except perhaps how annoyed he was.

With purposeful exactness, Dean pulled on his coat and scribbled a message heavily on a yellow sticky note.  _Cas--went down to visit Sam. Call me when you get in._  He underlined the last part a couple of times, then he placed the corner of it under Castiel’s still-full mug of coffee. When Castiel got home, he would clean up the mug, and he would see the note then.

At that moment, it did not occur to Dean that Castiel should never have left the mug out in the first place.

Sam was working the day at  _Harvelle and Sons_. It was one of the moments Dean truly enjoyed living in the small town he'd grown up in; knowing the Harvelles since he was a kid meant that Dean knew just how to correctly bribe Ellen to get Sam off the hook early. Especially as it was Friday--and hadn’t Sam been working hard enough all week?

Ellen looked up from her desk as Dean produced a Starbucks mochaccino; her eyes cast a withering gaze that clearly saw right through his motives. So Dean then revealed from behind his back his second offering, which was, of course, french fries from McDonald’s. Ellen shook her head. She smiled and allowed herself to be swayed, but only so far. “You two can head out early-- _if_  Sam finishes typing up that deposition.”

“No problem,” said Dean. How much work could typing up a deposition be?

One and a half hours later, Sam nudged Dean awake from where his head had fallen on the desk. “Oh dear God,” Dean said. “Are you finally done?”

“Yes, actually, I--”

Dean was out of his chair in an instant, grabbing his coat and halfway out the door with Sam scrambling to follow.

The two of them were overjoyed to be in each other’s company; it had been almost two weeks since they had hung out alone without either Cas or Bobby along with them. Two brothers together, and suddenly Dean felt like he was back in high school, and he was picking Sammy up from school. Only this time Sammy wasn’t a middle-school nerd, he was a nerd of almost equal age and more than equal ability to create mayhem. There was no threat of work tomorrow and no incoming blizzard or snowfall to impede their path. Unsure exactly of what to do or where to go, the pair of them wandered around town in the Impala and eventually ending up at the movie theater, catching the last matinee showing and barely making it in before the film started. As the lights began to dim, Dean turned off his phone.

It was two and a half hours later, while Dean and Sam climbed back into the Impala, laughing about the movie, that Dean switched his phone back on. He sat behind the steering wheel and turned the key, glancing down at the phone’s face to find the time staring back at him: 6:00 PM. No new messages, no returned calls. Just 6:00 PM glaring at him violently.

Dean’s eyebrows fell. He thought that perhaps his phone had yet not finished loading, perhaps the signal was still catching up, bouncing information on its lighting fast relay through space. So he continued conversing with Sam, setting the car into reverse and making their way out of the parking lot. He turned left down the street, arrived at a red light, then checked his phone again.

Nothing.

“Dean...”

Dean frowned, still staring at the glowing, digital face. Full bars, 3G networking...

“Dean--it’s green!”

A car honked behind him, and he snapped his attention back to the road, holding up a hand in apology. “Sorry.”

“You ok?”

“Huh? Oh, yeah, it’s...” He shook his head and set his phone down on his leg. “It’s nothing.”

When Sam did not say anything, Dean felt the need to continue. “It’s just Cas, I dunno. I kinda figured he’d call me back by now.”

“You said he was out, right?”

Dean shifted uncomfortably, pressing his foot down on the brake at yet another red light. “Yeah.”

“Well, where all did he go?”

“I, uh... I’m not sure.” Sam’s brow furrowed, and Dean glanced at him. “He didn’t say.” He paused. “But I might call him right now, just to see what’s going on?”

“Yeah, sure,” Sam gave a small smile as Dean dialed the phone and pressed it to his ear. It rang three times.

_“You have reached the voice messaging system of Castiel Allen. I am unable to answer the phone right now, but if you leave a message after the beep, I will return your call as soon as possible.”_

It beeped.

Dean’s mouth hung open, his voice caught in his throat. He honestly did not know what to say. “Hey, Cas, it’s me. Just got out of a movie with Sam, wonderin’ where you are.” The light changed to green. “Call me.”

Dean didn’t feel his foot pressing down on the gas. He ended the call, put both hands on the wheel, and felt numb. For the first time, for the first time all day in fact, something terrible began to gnaw at his skin, scratching its claws up and down the back of his throat and ripping a hole in his stomach. Dean swallowed heavily. From somewhere next to him, he heard Sam speak, ask him, “Everything alright?” The sound was bright and tinny, somehow echoing around the cab and back again as Dean nodded vaguely.

“Yeah, uh huh.”

“He didn’t answer?”

Dean licked his lips. “You wouldn’t mind if we swung by the house, would you? He probably left his phone in his car or something.”

“Sure.” Sam pursed his lips and nodded. They did not say another word to each other until they arrived at the house.

The sun had long since set, faint timbers of blue only just visible stretching into the apex from the west. Dean hadn’t thought to leave a light on when he had left this afternoon--he had assumed one of them would be back before dark. So it was only when they reached the very top of the pathway, when Dean began to turn his wheel slightly to the left, that his headlights were able to capture and illuminate the still empty garage bay where Castiel’s car should have been.

Cas had not come home.

It was there in that moment, his foot pressed to the brake and his eyes riveted on the empty spot, that Dean began to feel his heart pound. His mind was beginning a vicious, wild rewind of the day, but it was moving in such a blur that none of it made sense.

“Dean?”

Sam was staring at him, and Dean jilted himself into motion. He pulled the car up without bothering to settle into either of the usual places. Instead, he maneuvered her between the house and the garage and parked. He wanted to say something funny, some kind of joke to Sam that would make this better, but only half of it came out as they closed the car doors behind them. “You know what, he probably...”

Dean couldn’t get his keys out of his pocket. And when he finally did, he couldn’t find the right one until Sam held up a pocket flashlight.

The door squeaked as they walked inside; Dean said numbly, “Been needing to fix that...” His boots were so goddamn loud on the floor as he made his way through the mudroom, flicking on the kitchen lights and finding himself unable to enter further. His eyes had landed on the dining room table where his note still lay, unread, trapped under the cup of coffee that had not been drunk. The cup of coffee that should not have been there. Because Castiel should have picked it up--he would have picked it up.

Dean felt like he was dreaming. He needed very much to wake up and to understand one small section of what was going on.

“Cas?” Sam walked past him, strolling through the hall, into the living room, turning on a side-table lamp. Dean could hear him call up the stairs. “Hey, Cas, you here?”

Dean swallowed and realized there was no saliva in his mouth. He leaned back against a counter as the cold fluorescents of the kitchen overhead caught Sam’s face peering around the corner. “He’s not here, Dean.”

Dean opened his mouth, thinking to say “I know,” but it didn’t come out.

“What’s going on?”

Dean shook his head, this time trying to say “I don’t know,” but instead saying, “He’s probably just at the store.”

Sam stepped fully into the kitchen, staring down at Dean firmly. “For how long?”

“Oh. Um.” Dean blinked. He looked down at his watch and at the phone that he somehow held in his hand without remembering how it got there. “I...” He thought--he tried to think--but the light was too bright and nothing made any sense. “I guess--I dunno, I took a shower around ten, so...”

Sam inclined his head and frowned ever deeper. “You haven’t seen him since ten?”

“I uh...” Dean blinked heavily. “Yeah I guess so, I...” Suddenly he shook his head and laughed. “This is crazy.”

Sam did not smile. If anything, his face grew more serious. “Dean, you haven’t seen or heard from him in almost eight hours?”

Dean’s smile dropped away from his face. He did not understand what was happening. The hairs on the back of his neck were standing up and he shivered. “I guess not, no.”

Sam folded his arms. “Did you guys fight?”

“What?” Dean’s eyes snapped to his brother's, his face contorting with his vehemence. “No! Why the hell would you ask that?”

“Well, I’m just--”

“You think he...” Dean stared at his brother, his jaw dropping and his head shaking slightly.

“No, I don’t think that, Dean, I was just--”

Dean’s feet suddenly planted on the floor again. He arched around his brother, marching through the house, turning on every single light, running up the stairs and bursting through the door of their bedroom, the office, the bathroom. He even kicked open the door to the small attic, where he had first realized how much he had wanted Cas, where he had first realized that his father had loved him. The overhead lightbulb swung back and forth as Dean tugged its chain to turn it on. He stared wide-eyed around him. Cas was not here; Cas was gone.

Where the hell was Cas.

He whirled around, opening his phone and swinging around Sam, who had followed him up, and Dean practically flew down the stairs. “No, goddamn it--!” he said over the sounds of Castiel’s voice message. He hung up and dialed again, finding himself in the living room, looking around it as though he hadn’t already done so before, as if there were more than two places in it that anyone could possibly hide, if they had a reason to hide.

_“You have reached the voice messaging system of--”_

Dean roared in the back of his throat, turning on the spot, watching his brother come down the stairs, unable to meet his eyes. The beep queued him, and Dean spoke loudly into the receiver. “Cas, you son of a bitch, where the hell are you man, you’re scaring the shit out of me. Call me back!”

He hung up the phone, throwing it wildly into the couch and sinking into an armchair, shoving his palms into his eyes. He did not know what to do.

He felt Sam standing in front of him, felt his presence radiating around the room, something solid to cling to. Dean drug his fingers down his face, meeting Sam’s eyes in the middle, as Sam crouched to look at his brother. “Dean, what’s going on?”

“I don’t--why do you keep asking me that, Sam? I don’t know what’s going on!”

“Ok, ok,” Sam said carefully, nodding. “Can you think of any place he might have gone to?”

“No, I--no. The store, Sam. Our restaurant. To--to Starbucks to get the hell away from me for awhile, I don’t _know._ ”

“Ok. Can you think of any reason he wouldn’t be answering his phone?”

Dean shook his head, for the first time feeling something wet well up behind his eyes because this answer was the most confusing part of all. “No, Sam. He wouldn’t--he leaves messages and notes for me, we--we leave each other notes and we say where we’re going.”

“So this was just a normal day for you two?”

“Yes!” Dean said, putting his head in his hands again. “Yes...”

He stared down at the floor. After a long moment, Sam began to say something. Dean could make out the words “car accident, maybe,” which was enough to make his heart pound all the more, so he shook his head, pressing his fingers into his skull, looking across at his phone where it still lay on the couch. He willed it to ring, willed Castiel to call him and explain everything, everything that was going on, everything that had happened and why this was happening now; just to say that he was ok...

The only reason Cas would have left... Dean felt his heart go cold, and the dread within him sunk all the way to his toes, making the world disappear. What had changed between them? Nothing had changed. Except that Castiel had opened up--he had shared something with Dean, something deep and awful. Had that been too much for him? Or worse yet, had it been Dean’s somewhat maddened confession of love, amidst the heat and sighs of Castiel in the morning? God... that was this morning. Just this morning they had lain together. What Dean wouldn’t give to be back in that bed, holding Cas--rewinding the day, only this time, not leaving to take a shower. This time, insisting that Castiel not go and open the front door--Castiel shouldn’t even get out of bed. They should have ignored the knock, ignored the world presenting itself, ignored--

Dean stopped.

He sat straight quite suddenly. He didn’t really have a thought in his mind, not a clear sentence or reaction, but a feeling. A normal day, with his lover, interrupted by something odd. The package itself wasn’t that odd--even the name on the package wasn’t that odd. But it  _was_  odd that Dean heard Castiel say, “Yes?” when he was asked, “Mr Novak?”

Why would Castiel have said yes to that name?

Like lightning, Dean took off around the corner, swinging himself to a stop in front of the recycling bin, staring down at the box that contained nothing and was nothing, lifting it to read in dark hand-writing the name “Castiel Novak,” with no sender listed. He stared at it, the gears and clocks and triggers in his mind clicking, clicking, clicking--

“I’m gonna call Jody.”

Dean whirled around--Sam was standing in the doorway, his cellphone in his hands. Dean shook his head. “No, Sam, don’t--”

“She can give us an accident report at the very least, Dean--”

“We don’t need to involve her.”

“Dean, he’s been missing for eight hours--”

“Sam, he’s probably just--”

“Dean!” Sam stared at him, his jaw opening wide, when he suddenly caught sight of what was in Dean’s hands. “What’s that?”

“It’s a package Cas received this morning.”

“What was in it?”

Dean shook his head. “Nothing.”

Sam lifted his head, his eyes still staring down at the box, and he said. “I’m calling Jody.” When Dean started to protest, Sam held up a hand. “Dean. Do you really think Cas is running errands?”

Dean hesitated, then blinked, then opened a mouth that was dry. “No. I don’t.” He looked back down at the name in black ink, the name of a stranger staring back up at him. “I don’t.”

\-------------------------------------

Jody was scribbling down notes from everything Dean had told her, nodding occasionally, dotting heavily on her i’s. Every now and then she would rotate in her seat, leaning over to type on her tablet, hushing or responding to the receiver on her two-way radio. Something static buzzed its way through, and a few number codes Dean almost recognized were relayed to her. “Copy that,” Jody said into the speaker, looking up at the boys. “Well, good news and bad, we’ve got no accident report on a black Honda Civic.”

Dean felt himself nod, gritting his teeth. Jody’s eyes were dark, though her voice managed to convey both sincerity and kindness at once. The feeling it produced was something very solid to Dean, placing its finger on the memory of meeting Jody for the first time, the officer-in-training who had wrapped him in a warm, fleece blanket that cold night in November, comfort that Dean didn’t know he had needed as he watched the strange men walking in and out of his front door... 

Dean chewed on his lip, glancing over to Sam who was seated forward in his chair, arms folded, watching Jody work. Sam returned his brother’s gaze and nodded, smiling tightly and reaching to pat Dean’s knee. Jody sighed.

“Alright Dean. I’ve gotta ask it.” She paused. “Are you sure he didn’t leave?”

Dean stared at her, watching as her mouth closed around the words. He shook his head after a moment. Jody leaned her head down and stared at him, but Dean couldn’t say anything. No, of course Cas hadn’t left. But what if he had? Thirty minutes had gone since they arrived at the police station, and Dean still understood none of this.

“Dean,” Jody paused. “I’m not trying to suggest anything. But the fact is that we barely know Cas--he’s a  _stranger_ \--”

Dean took a deep breath, and thankfully Sam intervened.

“Look, Jody--” Sam said, leaning forward and placing his hands on the table. “I know what you’re thinking--I get what you’re doing here, but--this is  _Cas_. He wouldn’t just leave. At the very least, you can look at all he’s invested in this place, in the town...” Sam glanced at his brother.

Jody sighed, then very suddenly rotated the tablet around, angling it up for Dean and Sam to both see. “Castiel Novak. Graduated from Berkeley. Went to George Washington High School.” Jody plucked a finger against a tab, opening it and revealing this information, showing an old high-school yearbook photo that was clearly Castiel. “Castiel  _Allen,_  on the other hand, has records only going back the past few years. Dean, I know you don’t want to think badly of him, but the facts are right here. He’s been lying to us, to you, about who he really is.”

Dean stared down at the small photograph, at the haunted eyes and empty smile of a decade younger Castiel. Dean worked his tongue in his throat and croaked softly, “He’s not lying.”

“Dean, you can clearly see that he is.”

“So what?”

“Well, we have to acknowledge the possibility that he may have skipped town--that maybe this is what he does, Dean. Maybe he changes his name from place to place--”

“And why the hell would he do that?”

“We’re not sitting here looking for motive, Dean--”

“Well we goddamn well should be!” He stood up, his anger suddenly overflowing. “Cas has never lied to me--Cas...” He breathed deep, shaking his head, trying to let the puzzle pieces tumble and fall together. “If he changed his name, he changed it because he was getting away from something--he was afraid of his father, Jody. He told me that.”

“Did he ever tell you about his real name?”

“What the hell does it matter what his real name is?” Dean shouted, and Sam stood, placing a precautionary hand on his brother’s chest and trying to seat him. “He’s gone, Jody--he’s gone somewhere, and maybe the package this morning is the reason, maybe he’s running--or maybe it’s nothing, I don’t know! What the fuck does it matter what his real name is? Is that a reason not to look for him?”

Jody leaned back, away from the rage consuming her from across the table. Dean allowed himself to be coerced back into his chair, his hands clenching into fists as he stared across at Jody, who spoke very slowly, and very softly. “Dean,” she said, “Of course we're looking for him. I’ve already got patrols out for his car. And we’re in the process of a GPS track on his phone.”

Dean’s chest heaved and shuddered. He closed his eyes, letting his hands relax, the blood pumping through his fingertips.

“I know you love him, Dean.”

“I don’t love him,” he said reflexively, viciously. And in this moment, it was goddamn true. Dean hated Castiel. And love was an awful word anyway--it hurt, and it wasn’t nearly enough.

“But I need you to understand that there may be something else going on here, Dean. Something that you don’t want to hear. You’ve gotta brace yourself for it; this isn’t a simple missing person case--we’ve got evidence that proves he’s been hiding something.”

Dean opened his eyes, looking at Jody, and hearing every bit of what she meant--this was bad. This was very, very bad, and it could get a lot worse very soon. Sam put a hand on his back, and Dean was grateful for it--grateful for the heavy, physical presence. It grounded him, and kept the air from escaping his lungs too quickly. Jody’s radio fuzzed with words, and she clicked its button in response. “Copy that.” She stood. “I’ll be right back. Sam--you might want to call Bobby.”

Sam nodded, and then it was just the two of them in the room, Dean’s head in his hands, and Sam rubbing his back kindly as he pressed his phone to his ear. Dean listened to his brother speak, trying not to hear the situation described once again, trying not to hear his own predicament, and trying not to think about all the terrible, horrible things he couldn’t stop thinking. Castiel receiving that package, and Castiel leaving. Leaving Bennington to find a new town. Leaving behind home and the restaurant. Leaving behind Dean without a word, because he had never really cared for Dean at all. That the last four months, seven months, were a lie. Everything was a lie.

_God, please_ , he thought. And he couldn't make it further. He couldn’t begin the framework of a prayer, much less the follow-through. Dean didn’t believe in God. But he wanted to so badly, wanted to know that there was someone up there who cared, who could make things better, who could understand every word of what Dean could not say.  _God, please._

Thirty minutes passed in complete silence, interrupted only by Bobby’s arrival. Bobby, who took a look at his boys and sat beside them, spoke to Sam in quiet whispers and told Dean, “I’m here.”

Two hours passed. Jody wandered in and out, giving Bobby a quick kiss hello before explaining the changing statuses. She included Dean and Sam in with everything, so Dean knew when North Bennington and Paper Mill PD had come back with nothing. The accident report search had been widened to the Tri-State area, but its results were inconclusive. Although many Black Civics were involved in accidents, no car had Castiel’s plates and there were no serious casualties listed. And when the clock struck 10:30, Dean and Sam were told that the GPS search was finished, and the troops were heading out. Down along Route 7, in a hotel just south of Pownal, Vermont.

Dean, Sam, and Bobby shouldn’t have been involved after this. But Dean’s car keys were in his hand and Jody wasn’t about to tell him no. They traveled behind the row of lights, spinning blue and red and dizzying, sirens blaring through intersections. Dean was numb; Dean was raw. The road was straight, long, and narrow, and thank God they were on it. Thank God he had a direction. Thank God, thank God, thank God for the semblance of something. Dean could barely make sense of the yellow line between the lanes, of the stars that peeked above the boughs of the trees, bordering high on either side, evergreen branches holding the road close.

The Pownal police joined them along the way. It wasn’t a massive convoy, but Dean and Sam were still six cars deep as they began to put on the brakes, as they signaled left and turned down a long asphalt pathway, heading straight into the spread of the motel, lights glaring against the red brick. A few patrons peered through the blinds at the commotion, turning on lamps, waking up to see what was happening.

Dean threw the Impala into park, and then he was walking, walking fast and breathing heavy, trying to catch up to Jody, Sam and Bobby behind him. Jody was speaking with the hotel manager, as they walked along the line of rooms to number 11. To the room right in front of Castiel’s car.

The sight of it sent Dean into a giddy hurdle--a smile stretched from ear to ear, and he almost laughed. That was Castiel’s car, yes--not the questioned, innumerable black compacts he had spied on the roads and so wanted to be Castiel--no,  _this_  was it. The ding on the back bumper, the license plate--they had found him, they had found Castiel!

Jody glanced over her shoulder at Dean’s approach, and Dean could tell she was about to tell him to stand back, but he ignored her, watching as the hotel manager knocked on the door, banged on the door, and then, too slowly, slid down the key to enter.

Jody entered, and Dean burst through after, ignoring Jody’s shout for him to get back, because what did it matter when Castiel was there, when he was right there--

When he was not there.

Dean blinked. He spun around slowly.

The lamp by the bed was toppled over. The sheets were disheveled, ripped from the bed and twisted. A few of the drawers from the dresser were tugged halfway open, the dresser itself standing askew. The TV had toppled backwards from its stand and was leaned precariously against the wall. Couch cushions were tossed aside. And Castiel’s phone lay on the floor. Something dark was stained near it, flecks and specks scattering their way across the green carpet, dancing up onto the wall, leaving trails... Something dark; something red.

“Dean!”

Jody had been saying his name. He tried to look up at her, but all he saw was Sam in the doorway, staring at him like a ghost. All he saw were the cops on their radios, and Bobby’s shadow in the dancing lights.

“Dean, I need you to go.” Jody walked towards him. Her voice was so kind. “This is a crime scene now, Dean. You have to leave.”

She touched his shoulder and he jumped. He stared around wildly at her. “He was here, Jody, he was--”

“I know that, Dean. But you need to leave now.”

He felt himself nod, and he stepped past the threshold.

There were too many lights. Dean saw an ambulance, which he knew did not make sense. An ambulance wasn’t going to help anything. He looked past Bobby, who reached a hand to his shoulder to steer him. He searched for Sam. Sam was too tall. And Sam shouldn’t be here. He had to protect Sam. Sam was his responsibility now. Because their dad had forgotten about Sam, and Dean had been the one to go upstairs to get him, because Sammy wouldn’t stop crying. He was probably hungry.

Dean was dreaming. Except that dreams made more sense. Too many people rushing past him, away from him, listening to Jody’s calls for investigators. Jody’s voice, Jody, who put a blanket around his shoulders. Jody talking to a policeman with kind eyes, long hair, and a voice with a Southern accent, the same policeman who had a hold of his shoulder, moving him towards Sam and saying, “Take him home. Take him to my house, I’ll be there in a bit.”

Dean felt the pressure on his shoulder release; Bobby left his side. There were too many people. But they were there to help. It was going to be ok. Dean turned his face up to the night sky and thought how all those flashing lights got in the way of the stars. He really enjoyed seeing the stars. His mom did too.

And so did Cas.

Dean looked back down. He saw his feet. He saw them walking. And then he saw the ground.


	18. To Meet the Road Again

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> God bless the road that brings me back to you.

Shock. Stillness in motion, the thrumming of his heart, the blood flying through his veins and screaming through his ears, the empty clenching of his fingers. Vague words made their way through the haze, and he heard the hesitancy of his own reply without understanding what he was saying. Dean did not know how Sam got him to Bobby’s. Hardly anything was conscious thought. He felt the cold of the window against his cheek. He felt the tremor of his chest. But he could not see the forest flying by outside. He could not see Bennington’s approach, or the right turn, left turn, right turn, bend, then right into Bobby’s house.

Sam did not have to carry him; Dean could walk on his own. How, he did not know, because he certainly couldn’t steer himself. Sam had to do that. Sam had to tell him where to sit on the couch. He left Dean to get some water, then returned to find Dean standing halfway to the door, lost in the living room, a ship without mooring. So Sam tugged him back again into the bay, and they sat together in the dim, yellow light.

For over an hour they sat this way, Dean’s back straight as wrought iron, and Sam at his side. The clock was ticking, matching the dull thud of the tumblers turning over in Dean’s mind. There was some kind of thought, or a series of thoughts, that was trying to construct itself into being. And, at the crowing of midnight, the pieces weaved themselves together, and they jumped into action.

Dean stood suddenly and walked to the desk in the corner, where Bobby’s laptop lay shut and sleeping. Opening it, Dean drummed his fingers along the touchpad and sat down in the desk chair, clicking his tongue as the computer blinked slowly into life, its sharp light dazzling his eyes.

Sam was watching him from the couch. “What are you doing?”

Dean did not respond. Instead, he pulled out his phone and set it on the table, peering in closely when the computer screen switched and regained his attention. “What’s Bobby’s password?”

“Uh...” Sam hesitated, rubbing a hand along the side of his face as he thought. “I’m not really... I think it’s his old badge number?”

Dean looked at his brother, trying to piece together the numbers he vaguely knew. “One four eight...”

“Thirteen five.”

“Thirteen five!” Dean typed as he spoke, his fingers hunting and pecking awkwardly across the keyboard face. “Got it. Thanks, Sammy.”

The room fell to silence again, only to be disturbed by the harmonious welcoming tones of the interface, and the sound of Dean looking through his phone. After a moment, he grimaced and muttered, “Damn...”

“What?”

“I don’t really have any good pictures of him...” He held up his flip phone, the poor quality of Castiel’s washed out face almost recognizable. He pulled the phone back and flipped through a few more images, holding it out at last. “You think this one will do?”

“Will do for what?”

Dean turned his phone around and stared at the photo he had found. Castiel wasn't really smiling. He had been taken completely by surprise, caught off-guard when Dean took the picture. It was the morning. Neither one of them had had their coffee yet, and Dean had thought Cas looked adorable. His hair was rumpled and his mouth was settled into an irritable frown; Dean snapped the photo, knowing what a grump Cas was in the mornings, and knowing he would get annoyed and try to take Dean’s phone away...

It had been a good day.

Dean blinked, and he heard himself quietly say, “What kind of information should be on a poster?”

Sam tilted his head to the side. “You mean, a missing person’s poster?”

Dean swallowed. “Yeah. I guess.”

Sam nodded slowly and stood, coming around and leaning over his brother to open an office document. He typed as he spoke. “Height, weight, age, eye color, hair color...” With one thumb, Sam pawed the mouse over to the internet, finding a few examples of flyers in an image search and taking notes on them. “Do you know all of this information?”

“I can probably guess what I don’t.” Dean watched his brother work; he was a wizard with this sort of thing, with computers. Dean stared avidly, fiddling with his hands; he was fighting the urge to take over, even though he knew that Sam was the faster typer. “How do I get his picture over to the page?”

“Email it to me.”

“Ok...”

Dean did so, sending it along the wire, his knee bouncing wildly as he waited for the corresponding beep of Sam’s phone, letting him know the photo had arrived. Together, they leaned over the screen, filling in the blanks on the flyer. They pulled up the photo Dean had sent, and Sam dragged it to a photo-editor. He started doing things with it that Dean couldn’t have fathomed doing on his own--darkening the lights, brightening the darks, making the edges crisper. By the time Sam was through, it actually looked like a decent photo. The edges of Castiel’s face had some small, pixelated borders, but it was barely noticeable. Dean wouldn’t have seen it at all had Sam not nit-picked each small detail. They were so focused on their task that they did not know how much time had passed, and it wasn’t until Bobby arrived home that Dean realized, with a start, that it was well after two in the morning.

The old man rounded the corner, dark circles under his eyes and a frown deeply set across his mouth. Seeing Bobby again was sobering; Dean hadn’t realized how much he had lost himself in his task.

“What are y’all doing?” Bobby dropped his bag at the threshold, leaning against it and rubbing his eyes.

“Making a flyer,” Sam replied, his eyes still glued to the screen.

Bobby nodded. “That’s good. That’s a good idea.”

There was something about his words, something about his presence that unsettled Dean, that made him feel like he had suddenly been thrown underwater; Bobby had been at the crime scene until now. He had been there, doing things,  _helping_. Dean swallowed, his nerves on fire, his heart in his throat. “Thanks,” he said quietly.

“We were just about to print, if you think it’s good?” Sam leaned back in the chair he shared with his brother, their long frames barely clinging to the small fold-out. Bobby took a deep breath and joined them, leaning over the computer and nodding as he read. “Looks good to me. Make sure you mention when and where he was last seen.”

“Yeah, ok...” Sam’s fingers were loud on the keyboard; Dean did not watch him add the data. He was staring down at his feet, only brought around when Bobby pressed a hand to his shoulder.

“You gonna hand these out tomorrow?”

“I think so,” Sam said, but Dean frowned. He looked up at the two of them, feeling far away.

“No, we’re gonna do that now.”

Sam opened his mouth to acquiesce, when Bobby shook his head flatly. “You’re not printing out a thousand of these here--my printer can’t take it, and I haven’t got that much paper left.”

“Well, we’ll print out what we can,” Dean said. Sam was halfway through scrolling down the print screen, when Bobby interrupted them again.

“Where exactly are you gonna take these right now? The twenty-four hour Seven-Eleven?”

Dean clenched his fists. “I don’t know, somewhere.”

Bobby opened his mouth, thought better of what he was going to say, and turned to Sam instead, exhaling deeply. “You should go on off to bed.”

“I’m not tired...”

Bobby pursed his lips, and Dean’s brow furrowed as he looked at his brother. “He said he’s not tired. You’re not tired, right Sam?”

Sam blinked in such a guilty way. There was a glaze in his eyes, a slack pallor to his skin and a heavy shadow growing on his jaw. Bobby folded his arms, staring straight at Dean. “Goodnight Sam.”

The room was sinking under something dark and suffocating, pressing harshly against Dean’s chest. For a few moments, no one moved. And then Sam quietly slunk out of the chair and disappeared up the stairs. Bobby followed him to the door, leaning against the wall and watching Sam’s progress until they could only listen for the opening and closing of the bedroom door. And then, when it was silent again, Bobby sighed heavily and looked up at Dean. He was clearly about to speak, and Dean beat him to the punch.

“Why the hell did you send him away?”

“Dean...”

“He was  _helping_  me, Bobby. I couldn’t have done half of this without him--”

“Dean--”

“And not nearly as fast--”

“Dean!”

Bobby finally shouted, and Dean’s jaw snapped shut. Bobby took a deep breath, composing himself. “He’s not the only one who should be getting rest, Dean.”

“I’m not going to bed.” He paused, waiting for Bobby to say more. And when he didn’t, Dean leaned back over the computer to finish filling out the print information. He typed out 200 copies, because that seemed like a reasonable number, and he pressed enter. Halfway across the room, the printer buzzed itself into life, and Dean crossed to it, wanting to see and hold the flyer in his hands, the first tangible thing in hours. The printer slowly spat out one, two, three, and Dean grabbed them wordlessly, thumbing through each. 

Bobby, still leaning against the wall, ducked his chin and said very suddenly, “Jody’s good at her job. Great at her job, actually.”

Dean gritted his jaw. His eyes flashed up, glaring at the older man. Bobby slid his gaze sharply over to Dean. “You know that, right?”

“What?”

“Jody is good at her job.”

Dean rolled his eyes and stalked back over to the computer, shifting the mouse across the screen and clicking with no real purpose in mind. “What’s your point.”

“I’m telling you this because I think you’re forgetting it.”

“I understand that she’s good at her job, Bobby.”

“There are good people,  _smart_  people, working on this case, Dean.”

Dean seated himself, staring hard at the screen and clicking madly, half thinking about comparing his flyer to the one Sam had used as a template, which was pointless as they had done it a million times already.

“I used to be one of them, Dean. As it is, I was doing everything I could to help them now.”

There was a sudden snap and shudder as the printer licked its fingers for paper and discovered none. A gentle pop-up appeared on the computer screen, asking very politely if it could have some more. Dean stood again and marched over, fumbling with the cabinets and drawers beneath the printer. “Where the fuck is your paper?”

“I told you I didn’t have that much paper left.” Bobby shrugged. “Guess I’m out.”

Dean stared at him, his jaw gaping. “There’s gotta be more.”

“Sure. Flip over what you got. That’s about sixty more pages right there, front and back flyers.”

Dean growled, suddenly spinning around to the printer, grabbing it viciously with his hands. He leaned there, frozen, his fingertips digging into the plastic. He wanted to rip it from the wall. He wanted to send it flying across the room, to beat it madly, to send it to hell because it was out of goddamn fucking paper. The one time in his life he really needed it, and it fucking failed him. “You piece of shit,” he growled, each syllable dark and husky. “You fucking piece of  _shit_!”

The veins on his arms were bursting, and he suddenly surrendered his grasp, throwing his hands up to his eyes, digging his fingers through his hair as he stumbled back. “Piece of shit,” he said again. It was all he could say, all he could feel. “God fucking dammit you piece of  _shit_!”

“You’re gonna blame the printer for this now?”

“How the fuck could you not have paper, Bobby?” Dean shouted, ripping his hands away and taking hair with him.

Bobby shut his mouth, thinning his lips into a line as Dean turned wildly around the room. Eventually, Bobby said very quietly, “You’re just gonna have to wait, Dean. Make copies somewhere tomorrow. Hand them out tomorrow. No one’s open right now anyway.”

“Doesn’t matter... none of it--none of it fucking matters.” And suddenly Dean collapsed on the floor, his legs buckling under him. He dropped his elbows to the ground and hid in his palms, shaking his head over and over again.

“Dean...” Bobby moved to him, sitting by his side and grabbing his arms and shoulders.

“He’s probably already dead, Bobby.”

“Don’t you say that. Don’t you dare give up on him, Dean.”

Dean shook his head fast. “You saw the blood. You saw it just like I did!”

“Then we saw two different things, Dean. You don’t know who that blood belonged to, and bottom line, there wasn’t enough of it there to mean that anyone was dead!”

“So where is he?” Dean looked up, red-rimmed eyes burning his irises into a brilliant, haunting green. “Why wasn’t he there?”

Bobby shook his head. “We don’t know, Dean. But they’re on it, ok?”

“Who?”

“ _Jody_ , Dean, her whole team--they’re  _on_  it. That’s what I’ve been trying to tell you. They were already sending stuff off to the labs and going through surveillance photos when I left.”

“Did they find anything?”

“Not yet, no.”

And Dean laughed suddenly without humor. “Of  _course_  they haven’t.”

“Goddamn it, Dean.” Bobby shook him gently. “You want to be useful, but you already think this is a lost cause? How the hell is that gonna be good for anyone?”

Dean drug a hand over his mouth. “What am I supposed to do, Bobby?”

“You go to sleep. You take deep breaths. And you pray.”

Dean laughed again. “Fuck that.”

“Dean--” Bobby dropped his hands. “You can’t do anything right now. You have to wait until morning.”

“Why?”

“Because, Dean. The world may have stopped for you, but it’s still going for everyone else. And I’m sorry, but no matter how loud you knock on the door of Henry’s Market right now, there ain’t nobody there.”

Dean leaned forward, sinking into his palms and feeling his body trembling. He spoke, his voice a quiver, falling back onto the one question he couldn’t stop asking but knew had no answer. “ _Why_ , Bobby? Why is this happening?”

Bobby looked down, reaching out a hand and pressing it gently to Dean’s cheek. “I don’t know, son.”

“I just want it to be over.”

“I know you do.” When Dean could say nothing further, Bobby stood and pulled Dean up by his arms. “Go upstairs. Go to sleep, or at least try to. Stores open up in a few hours, Dean, and you can go out then.”

“What about you?”

“I’ll stay down here on the couch. Make sure you don’t try to sneak out and do something stupid.”

That got a real laugh out of Dean, albeit small and brief. But it was enough to turn his head-shake into a nod, enough to allow Bobby to turn him around and walk him to the stairs. 

Two twin beds still lived in a room at the end of the hall, beds Dean and Sam had occupied as children on the nights their father worked late. The beds were still covered in the orange plaid comforters Bobby had purchased in the mid-eighties. It was hideous then, and it was hideous now. But the familiarity was absurdly comforting in the soft glow of the nightlight he and Sam hadn’t needed since they were babies, but still remained on in the corner.

Sam was fast asleep in the bed to the right; his legs dangled far off its edge as he snored softly into a pillow. Dean wouldn’t be able to sleep. But he laid down anyway, kicked off his shoes, and pressed his head against the soft cotton, because Bobby told him to do so. He closed his eyes, but found no peace in the dark. There were only visions of Castiel, the moments of this morning--no, yesterday morning--the feel of Castiel in his arms, and the emptiness Dean felt around him now. He thought about the lies Castiel must have whispered to him--everything he said must have been a lie. How else could this have happened? It had been too good to be true. All of this had been. Of course it would turn out this way.

Dean’s heart clenched, and he felt his lips tremble. Goddamn this, and everything about it. He was so angry and so upset, but wrapping his fists around the sheets failed to ground him, it simply brought more vivid memories. The sound of Castiel’s laughter, and how Dean would give anything to hear it again. The feeling of his lips against Dean’s temple in the morning. The moment they met in the restaurant, the first time they kissed at the restaurant, catching each other on break outside, the fumbling fear of being caught. The week spent together, trapped in the snow, where they said so much to each other, learned so much about each other... Those words could not have been lies. They could not have been nothing. Castiel wasn’t nothing; Dean had to get him back.

The next thing he knew, it was morning.

Sunlight streamed through the window, and Dean looked over at his brother to find him already awake and stretching, sitting on the side of the bed and blinking. He nodded to Dean, and mumbled, “Morning.”

“Morning.”

Sam hesitated, then said, “I think I’m gonna go downstairs and put that flyer we made online... Don’t know why I didn’t think of it last night.”

Dean sat up. “Sounds like a good idea.”

“Did you sleep?”

Dean shook his head. “Not really. What time is it?”

“Almost eight. Do you want any breakfast before we head out?”

Dean blinked across at his brother, feeling immensely grateful for his large presence, for his sense in all the confusion. Head out--yes, it was morning. “No, I’m not really hungry...”

Sam nodded, left the room, and Dean pulled himself out of bed to follow.

It was morning. Morning meant action; morning meant Cas.

\--------------------------------

Three hours later, Dean and Sam had made copies of the flyer, and they were knee-deep into Bennington, hitting up every local store and bureau and making their way south towards Pownal. Bobby had left with them in the morning, turning his old truck downtown towards the station. Dean had been torn, wanting to go along. But Castiel’s face was staring up at him from the poster in his hands, and Dean knew where he would be more useful.

Somehow, Dean had not anticipated the recognition he would receive as he held out the flyer. It had completely escaped him in all of this that Castiel was a figure in the community; that he would be recognized and missed by someone other than his immediate family. Dean swallowed, taking in the dropped jaws as he explained to person after person what had happened--not everything, of course. They didn’t need to know everything. But it was enough to say that Castiel hadn’t been seen, and that there was some concern of foul-play. It struck Dean as he said this that he hadn’t seen Castiel in over twenty-four hours. One full day without him, a day that seemed endless and momentary all at once.

The grocers, the baristas, the waiters and waitresses all shook their heads emphatically; no, they had not seen him and, this was just awful and, they would keep their eyes peeled. Then, almost universally, they would say to Dean, holding Castiel’s photo in their hands, the data printed beneath his face in such bleak terms, “I’ll pray for him, Dean.”

Dean did not know what to say to that. So he would take his leave as quickly as possible, trying to avoid their eyes and the audible sound of their sympathy. Sympathy and confusion, tumbling out of the wreckage and almost breaking him again until he could get back into the car, get back onto the road, and drive, drive, drive.

Sam was next to him in the passenger seat. The steadily decreasing stack of missing-persons flyers sat between them, and a physical roadmap was spread across Sam’s knees, on which he was making note of all the places they stopped and the people they spoke to. How Sam even thought to do something like that Dean did not know. It made him feel good to hear the names listed out, the increasing number of people they had reached. Good, Dean thought. Get everyone to know. Get the whole world to stop what they were doing, listen, and know--because they could help, because they had to help. Anything was better than nothing, and they finally felt far from nothing.

This worked for Dean, the wind blowing in from the windows, the high sun baking the asphalt into something almost akin to springtime, his brother at his side, and Led Zepplin playing ever so softly on the radio. It made Dean feel like every turn of the wheel was bringing him closer to Castiel, so close that it seemed inevitable that, at some point today, they would find him. They would simply turn around and find him, and he would be alright, and that would be that.

There was a name for such a feeling: hope. Laying a finger against the word, pressing it close to his lips. Believing in it without being aware he was believing at all--just doing, saying, acting with it. Hope accompanied him as the missing-person posters ran out. Hope accompanied him as the warm, forgiving, blissful sun found the horizon and melded with it. But then, Dean turned on his headlights, and then the stores began to close their doors, and then Sam turned to him, catching his eyes and speaking wordlessly; and hope began to sink.

It was full dark when Dean stopped the car at a red light; when it turned green, he found himself unable to move forward. He hesitated, opening his mouth. “It’s only a few more miles to Pittsfield.”

The Impala had long since crossed the border into Massachusetts. They had watched the sunset there, dipping amongst the trees that stretched across the invisible boundary. Sam nodded and said carefully. “Where would we go when we got there?”

“We could go to some motels and such, they’re always open. Maybe get a room in one to sleep for a bit, then keep going.”

Sam didn’t say anything. So Dean continued.

“We could go west into New York? I don’t know why I didn’t think about that earlier--if you want to lose someone, you go to New York.”

“We’re not going to New York, Dean.”

“But we... I mean, maybe...”

“Maybe.”

Silence fell again. Dean stared ahead, unaware of the car steadily approaching from behind until it blared its horn and swerved around them. Dean gasped, stirred into action, easing his foot off the brake and pulling over onto the shoulder of the road. He put the car in park, and then leaned back in his seat. “Where should we go?”

When Sam didn’t say anything, Dean reached across the seat to the roadmap, tugging it into his lap and turning on the dim overhead lamp. “We hit up Pownal, Williamstown, North Adams... here  _we_  are... It’s only a few miles to Pittsfield, Sam, seriously, we can make it.”

Sam bit his lips, took a deep breath, and said, “Ok.” And Dean was about to smile, bob his head a few times, and turn up the radio, but Sam stopped him. “We can go wherever you want to go, Dean.”

Dean froze. His fingers were on the radio, and they did not move. After a long moment, wherein he did not breathe at all, he said very quietly, “Don’t you dare.”

“What, Dean?”

Dean shook his head, feeling his lips burn as he pressed them together. “Don’t you dare make this about pitying me.”

“I’m not. I just think... maybe we should go home. Try again tomorrow.”

Tomorrow? Fuck tomorrow. Another twelve hours of darkness. Another twelve hours wherein he was supposed to go to sleep and wake up refreshed.  _Again_. How many more times? How many more tomorrows was this going to bring? “Sam, there is no fucking tomorrow.” He glared at his brother, his hand still glued to the radio. “There is only fucking now.”

And Sam looked at him, and God, yes, it was pity. It was such awful, humiliating, terrible pity--the look Dean had received all day, all fucking day from everyone, strangers, acquaintances. So much pity for the fucking Winchesters that it even came from within. “Dean,” Sam said softly, “There is a tomorrow.”

Dean shook his head and did not speak. Fuck the night and the stars, the road beneath his feet, leading him nowhere and everywhere, everywhere except where he really wanted to be. He had gone straight through for over twelve hours. Twelve hours since he awoke and thought that handing out flyers was actually going to do something, twelve hours since he thought going out and talking to people was a such good fucking idea. But it all proved useless, small and insignificant compared to the loss of a fucking human being. Dean pried his fingers from the dash. He wrapped them hard around the steering wheel. And then he suddenly got out of the car.

He didn’t know where he was walking. Boots covered in high grasses and Sammy following him, and he just started walking. Out, down, around. Little divots and rocks trying in vain to slow him. Was he running? He should stop running. There was nothing to run to.

So he did stop. And Sammy was panting behind him, shouting, “Dean!” and they doubled over to catch their breaths.

How long they stood there, Dean did not know. He couldn’t say anything, and Sam didn’t try to make him. And eventually, without another word, Dean slowly turned and walked back to the car, climbed in the front seat, and drove them back to home.

\---------------------------------

Bobby’s house was quiet; he was clearly still out at the station. The clock ticked in the hall, and a dull lamp glowed, illuminating just enough for Dean and Sam to find their way inside, close the door, and wander into the living room. It was almost a perfect replica of the scene they came home to last night; the similarity was nauseating.

“You tired at all?” Sam asked.

It was the first thing either one of them had said to each other since Massachusetts. Dean turned to look at Sam, who was watching him in the low light. Dean flicked on another lamp, blinking. “No.”

That was a lie. He was unbelievably tired. In some ways, it felt as though he had never gotten up this morning. His body felt beaten, punched repeatedly in places he couldn’t see. Exhaustion creeped along his throat, forcing out a yawn that made Sam say, “You should go to bed.”

Yes, he should, because what else was there to do? It seemed like no one in this world did anything but get up and then go back to sleep again. Dean glanced at his watch; it was only nine. “I think I’ll stay up for a little bit more.”

“Then I’ll stay up with you.”

“No, man, you don’t...” Dean waved a hand, making his way over to the couch and sitting. “You don’t have to stay with me, ok? I’m fine.”

“Well, what if I wanted to?” Sam sat next to him, folding his legs up.

“Whatever man, do what you want.” Dean turned on the TV. Not because he wanted to, but because it was something. Because it wasn’t sleeping, and because it was what one did when one sat in front of a television--turned it on.

Flipping channels without really caring, Sam breathing steadily at his side... The clock ticked to nine-thirty. And Dean couldn’t take the insane hum of absolutely nothing anymore. So he stood. “I’m gonna go shower.”

He left the room before Sam had a chance to finish his thought of, “That’s a good--”

A shower. Washing his hair so slowly. Trying not to think about the last time he did this, or how everything was his fault, his blame on a brutal repeat. If he hadn’t gotten into that shower. If he had only stepped out sooner, or maybe if he hadn’t paused to make the damn bed--if he hadn’t shaved that morning. If he hadn’t been singing to Castiel, trying to woo him, to stupidly  _stupidly_  woo a man who didn’t even care enough to tell Dean goodbye. That one simple word, goodbye, pressed between and manipulated between two lips that had, in every other way, brought such heaven. The heaven of their words, the heaven of their texture. Why couldn’t he just say it? Just say goodbye?

Dean’s eyes were red when he stepped out of the shower. His jaw was prickly and he couldn’t give two shits less. He had barely felt the water pouring down on him at all. He didn’t feel anything. He stared across at his reflection in the mirror and saw a stranger there. He was so tired. He was so, so tired. Why couldn’t this just stop?

“Cas,” he whispered. He clenched his eyes shut and leaned against the counter. “Cas just come home man. Please. Just come home.”

Useless words. Insipid, bitter, falling off his tongue. He knew--he knew because his father had been a cop, and he knew because his mother’s murder sat wrapped up neatly in a box, tampered with for decades and then-some by more than one generation--he knew that the first forty-eight hours were everything. And he was waist-deep in those hours, in those precious seconds, and everything was flying through his fingers, ripping through the cracks in the window and the pavement, falling, falling, falling...

He redressed in the same clothes he had worn all day. The same clothes he had worn when he first stepped into the living room and realized Castiel was gone. He walked down the stairs only to hear the tail-end of a news segment that was almost certainly about the hotel in Pownal, about the mysterious event that took place there. He caught Sam’s guilty expression as his brother quickly hit the mute button. “Hey. Shower feel good?”

Dean shrugged. He stood in the threshold.

“You wanna sit?”

Dean shook his head. “Not really.”

“You wanna watch something else? I wasn’t really--”

“No, Sam.” Dean took a deep breath. “I think I’m gonna go lie down. I guess. Unless I can think of anything...”

“No, yeah, that’s a good idea. Go get some rest.”

Sam was nodding kindly, giving a gentle smile. He was doing his best to act as though everything were normal. It didn’t work, though Dean wasn’t about to say that. He stood for a moment more, before allowing his feet to take him back up the stairs, into the small bedroom. Shutting the door.

Quiet.

Such quiet meant one should sleep. One should shut off the overhead light, crawl into bed, and close their eyes. So Dean did. He peeled away his soiled clothing, shivered under the old sheets and comforter, and closed his eyes. He breathed deep. He opened his eyes. And he exhaled. And for the next thirty minutes, he followed this variant until he finally didn’t fight anymore--he didn’t fight for ideas, for strength, for fortitude--he gave in to his exhaustion. And he slept.

It was not peaceful.

His house was on fire. His house--his parent’s house--Castiel’s house--his house was engulfed in flames, and he was in the middle. He kept running to find the exit, but none of the doors would open, and nothing was where it should be, except that of course, it was. Everything was exact, because he was somehow in two houses at once--his mother’s house and Castiel’s.

Dean knew he could escape the fire if he went through the front door. But going there meant he would have to walk past his dead mother in the foyer, and he didn’t think he could bear it. He couldn’t get out, and somewhere outside the house his father was yelling at him, or to him, he couldn’t tell. “I’m trying,” Dean shouted back. “I can’t--I can’t--”

“Yes you can!” And Dean didn’t know who said that. It could have been his father, but it sounded as though it were right next to him. He turned his head, and God, for a moment, he thought he saw Castiel, but Castiel didn’t exist yet--Dean didn’t know him yet. God, how he wished his mother could have met Castiel.

His mother. The foyer.

So Dean went, slowly. He walked around the corner, and yes, there she was. Laying in something dark, a pool reflecting the flames on the ceiling, haloing around her so vividly that she seemed on fire herself. And he cried out and wept, because she was there, like he knew she would be. She was laying under the pictures of the yellow flowers on the wall, the yellow flowers in the bouquet Dean had bought for Castiel all those months ago. The bouquet still sitting in the vase near the door. Dean collapsed to his knees, and he couldn’t breathe, the smoke was everywhere, in his eyes and mouth. Then a hand fell to his shoulder.

He looked up; and there she was. Glorious, golden hair arcing around her, haloing her perfect face, the face he had remembered and forgotten all at once. Here, with perfect clarity, were the lines around her eyes, the freckles on her cheeks that he knew mirrored his own. Her eyes were so blue, and she was so beautiful.

“Mom...” he said, his throat bobbing heavily, because he wouldn’t dare believe it.

“Wake up, Dean,” she said. She sounded like an angel--it was her voice, her very voice, the voice he had forgotten that he knew.

“Mom, I can’t...”

“Yes, you can.” And she leaned her head so beautifully, a gentle tilt that looked familiar to him although he could not fathom why, for he had never seen her do it. She opened her mouth and said again, “Wake up.”

But this time, she did not sound like his mother.

“Dean--Dean, wake up!”

Dean snapped open his eyes; Sammy was hovering above him, shaking his shoulder emphatically. “Wake up!”

“I’m awake...” Dean blinked, breathing heavily, suddenly aware that he was sweating wildly, his fingers trembling. “I’m...” He squinted, trying to make sense of the room around him, of Sam, whose eyes were staring back with great worry. “What’s going on?”

Sam opened his mouth, and only air escaped. Heavy, rapid air. And Dean knew. He sat up, throwing the covers off. “ _Where?_ ”

Sam shook his head and swallowed. Dean was standing fast, grabbing Sam’s arms and shaking him. “Where is he?”

Sam’s voice was small. “Brattleboro Memorial.” His mouth shook, shaping the next words so carefully so as not to lose control over them. “It’s not good, Dean.”

But Dean didn’t hear that. All he heard was that Castiel was found, and that Castiel was  _alive_. God in heaven, he was alive!

Dean was scrambling into jeans, shirt, socks, jacket. He was down the stairs, grabbing his keys. Sam was running at his side as they burst through the front door. They did not bother to lock it behind them; they were rushing, flying, to meet the road again.


	19. Time and all Its Friends

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Discovery and unanswered questions.

The room was dark but for a single, dull, fluorescent light buzzing gently above the bed. The pulsing of a heart monitor kept time under the steady hiss and sigh of a ventilator, as it flushed air in and out like a bellows. These strange harmonies twisted together and flitted into the dark corners of the room.

Ventilator to lungs; wires to heart; vines to veins along tattered, bruised skin. Fragile skin, ripped in so many places, stitched together and puckering along the thread. A thick tube snaked out from the left side of a chest, secured in place by a heavy bandage. The tube pulled away the built up fluids trapped within, collecting them in a bag that hung near the dripping IV.

It was a punctured lung, created by a knife-wound, stabbed in such an angle that should have penetrated the heart. But it missed. Whether from chance or from purpose, it missed the heart. Mere inches allowed this moment to exist, this moment wherein life was still possible, dancing to the morbid tune of a hospital room. Mere inches.

So much was shattered. His right arm was in a cast, broken in two places. His kneecaps were battered and bloody--one was fractured, it too encased in a cast, pins and needles holding it together. He wore a neck brace, his eyes were puffy, and the left side of his face was brutally swollen, having been struck hard enough as to knock out a molar. A few bandages and stitches were wrapped around and visible in his hairline. Castiel was almost unrecognizable.

Almost.

Unfortunately, there was nothing Bobby or Jody could say, nothing the doctors could reveal that could truly prepare Dean for what he would find when he entered that room. He could not stop the buckling of his knees or the cry that escaped his throat, half in joy and half in terror. But it truly was Castiel; he had been found.

Only after Dean could touch and feel and see was he able to actually listen to what the doctors were telling him and Sam. Even then, the language seemed like a jumbled mess, fighting to be heard over Dean’s ragged breathing and the blood flying through his ears. He picked up bits and pieces until eventually it made sense: Castiel had lost a lot of blood. His brain was swelling from repeated impacts. That, combined with the lack of oxygen from his collapsed lung, might have damaged him permanently.

“Damaged?” Dean asked, barely hearing himself. “What does that mean?”

“It could be as simple as occasional migraines, or it could extend to something more severe, like impaired speech or mobility,” said one doctor, shorter than the others, though clearly the most empathetic. “We don’t know. There are factors working in his favor. One, that he was found relatively soon after receiving the laceration to his upper thorax. Two, that he was in the beginning stages of hypothermia.”

“How is that a good thing?” Dean stared, incredulous.

“In some cases, hypothermia has shown to lessen brain swelling. But the best we can do for him now is to keep him under, give him enough oxygen, and monitor his progress. We won’t know until he wakes up.”

“And when will that be?”

No one could tell for certain. Time was everything. The nurse who had found him, an unconscious, almost naked figure huddled on the side of the road, had just ended her shift. Had she been there five minutes earlier or five minutes later, Castiel would not have made it. He would have been left there to bleed, and there was only so much blood the body could give. Dean could not begin to get a handle on that knowledge, on the close proximity of such luck. Such fucking luck in everything, it seemed, and yet Castiel still lay on this bed, wrecked into pieces, only moving at the discretion of a ventilator. Dean stared at Cas’s chest as it rose steadily up and down; he lost himself in the rhythm. 

“What’s her name again?” Bobby asked, looking up at the one doctor who remained in the room. “The nurse who found him?”

“Blake. Sarah Blake. She works down in NICU.”

Dean wanted to meet her; and maybe later, he could. Maybe later, when he wasn’t frozen in shock and clutching Castiel’s bedside like it was air. Perhaps by then, he could sort out just exactly what to say to her. The thoughts were rolling into something that seemed insultingly insignificant once put into words--thank you for slowing down, thank you for stopping, thank you for giving him the chance he never would have had without, thank you for giving  _us_  the chance--thank you simply didn’t seem like enough.

As the night wore deeper into day, Dean’s companions eventually disappeared. Bobby had to take Sam home; Sam had work the next morning, which Dean was slightly amazed to remember. The Harvelles had given him the time to help his brother, but now that Castiel was found, Sam would have to return again. “I’ll be up here the second I can get off, though, alright?” he said as he left, squeezing his brother’s shoulder.

The nurses stared at Dean. Now that the others had gone, they seemed eager to clear the room. Guests who stayed over in Intensive Care should only have been immediate family. But when they tried to move him, Dean bared his teeth and hovered protectively over Castiel’s side as he muttered, “He  _is_  my family.”

Perhaps it was because of the terrible trauma their patient had experienced, but the nurses were never less than sympathetic to Dean, and eventually, no more was said about his leaving. By four a.m., Dean was alone. Alone, but not alone, sitting on a chair next to Castiel’s right side, because there was no where else to sit or to lay. He gently clutched at the purpled fingertips peeking through the cast, and he hardly spoke at all.

The nurses came and went. Dean was barely aware of them most times, until one or more hands fell to Castiel, and then suddenly their every move seemed earth-shakingly vital and important.

“What are you doing?”

“Checking that his ventilator tube is still secure.”

“You’re not taking it out, are you?”

“No,” they said kindly. At five o’clock in the morning, Castiel was wheeled down the hall for a CT scan to check the pressure levels in his skull. Dean stood awkwardly in the room, his heart pounding. “Can I go along?” he asked. The nurses shook their heads no. “He’ll be back in about thirty minutes, ok? Just try to get some rest.”

Rest was unlikely; Dean could only think about the nausea in his stomach and the bile in his throat. His nerves made each second agonizing, and when Castiel finally returned, Dean jumped up anxiously to help, only to realize there was nothing he could do. “How is he?”

The nurse shrugged. “The scan went well, but that information goes to the doctors, not me, I’m afraid.” She was re-hooking the IV through the stand, finishing the adjustments of his heart monitors and re-checking his ventilator tube. She looked up at Dean, her large dark eyes shining as she said gently, “Have you talked to him?”

Dean blinked at her as she continued. “Be good for him to know you’re here.”

“Can he...” Dean shook his head. “He can’t hear me.”

She shrugged honestly. “I don’t know. Why don’t you try and find out?” She paused at the door on her way out. “I think he can, for what it’s worth.”

So Dean swallowed, watching as the door closed, and he worked his lips slowly, tremulously. He pulled the chair closer to the bed and sat. He had tried to speak to Castiel in the beginning, when he had first arrived in the room, but he had been incoherent with shock. Seeing Castiel so drastically changed and damaged took Dean’s breath away, and the only sound that escaped from him was wild at best. Two days Castiel had been gone, and two days were a lifetime, enough to transform him from a brilliant, thriving being of light, to what he was now. How had Dean ever been able to hold him, or shake his hand, or kiss him? How would he ever be able to again?

“Cas?” Dean spoke too quietly into the room. The incessant beeping of the monitor and the ventilator’s sighs filled the space and drowned him out. Dean’s mouth was dry; he didn’t know how to speak.

“Cas, can you hear me?”

He paused, and clarified. “It’s me--it’s Dean. I’m here.”

Cas’s chest rose and fell, and Dean gripped tightly at his limp fingers. He reached out a hand and gently thumbed the length of Castiel’s cheek, slowly stroking a pattern against the turn of his cheekbone, against the few patches of skin that were unbruised and un-battered. His lips were chapped and unmoving, stretched around the breathing tube. Dean caressed him, hearing the small laugh in his own throat as he whispered, “You need a shave, man, you’ve got some wicked five-o’clock growin’ here...”

He shook his head. What the hell was he saying? He needed to be closer; he was too far away.

“The docs are saying all kinds of stuff, and I don’t... they’re not sure how you’ll be when you wake up. But--but I don’t really care. I just want you to wake up, you know? I know you’re sleeping now and you need to be, but--” His voice broke. “I just want you to wake up again and  _be_  here again, goddamn it...”

Dean pulled his hand away, tucking his forehead into his palm, laying his head against the bed. After a long moment, wherein he drew small, shuddering breaths, he spoke. “I’m just gonna wait here, ok? Until you wake up. I’m not going anywhere, I promise--I’m gonna... I’m gonna be right here.”

And then he fell silent again, letting his eyelids flutter shut, heavy with so much weight.  He dozed in and out, his lips inches from their intertwined fingers, as the hours slipped slowly by.

When Bobby arrived, it was almost nine. The sun was peeking through the blinds of the small window of Castiel’s room. Dean awoke to a gentle hand on his shoulder, and a small, comforting, “Hey.”

Dean sat up, breathing deeply, suddenly aware of the brutal crick in his neck. He rubbed it gingerly, blinking down at the pile of freshly laundered clothing Bobby presented to him.

“Figured you might want to wear something that doesn’t smell like a horse’s ass. For when he wakes up.”

Dean laughed softly, accepting the clothes. “I don’t smell that bad.”

“Says you.” Bobby leaned away as Dean stood. “Sam picked them out for you, so you won’t look bad, I promise.”

“Don’t really care about that...”

Bobby hesitated, then said quietly, “Any change?”

“No.” Dean looked down at Castiel’s closed eyes. “I guess that’s a good thing.”

For a while they stood, neither man saying a word. Then Bobby clapped his back and steered Dean toward the bathroom door. “I got him; you go change.”

The bathroom was small, though more generous than some other hospital rooms, and it was remarkably sound proof. Dean shut the door, and for the first time in hours, he couldn’t hear the beep, beep, beep of the heart monitor quite so loudly. He exhaled. Leaning over the sink, he turned the faucet on and shut his eyes for a moment, listening to the roar of the water and nothing else, not the sounds of a hospital nor the sounds of his mind, screaming at him in exhausted panic. Castiel was three feet away from him, just outside the door, but Dean’s stomach was still in a knot. It hadn’t even begun to unwind itself.

He removed his clothes, grabbed a washcloth from the towel rack, and rubbed down his face, sighing. He bent to rinse out his mouth and wash the sleep from his eyes. It was going to be ok; it had to be. He couldn’t believe anything else.

He shuffled into fresh underwear, jeans, and a sweater, bundling his old clothes and stepping out into the room, only to discover that Bobby wasn’t there.

Dean tilted his head and frowned, turning to look at the door, when he heard the sounds of a lowered, though heated, conversation. He dropped his old clothing into chair and turned, placing his hand against the doorframe and listening.

“...so Victor asked me to come along.”

“Jody, he’s only been under about ten hours. That’s barely enough time to--”

“Bobby, you know as well as I do it’s the best chance we’ve got of finding this guy.”

“His next scheduled CT scan is in two hours,” said a third, unknown voice. “Can we--”

Dean opened the door, and four figures turned to him. Dean recognized the doctor who had operated on Castiel, but he did not know the tall, black man in a suit standing next to Jody. “What’s going on?”

Bobby cleared his throat. A deep frown was set across his features, and his arms were folded tightly over his chest. Jody turned to Dean. “Dean, this is Detective Victor Henrikson.”

Detective Henrikson held out his hand, and Dean accepted it.

“I’m working Mr. Novak’s case,” said the detective, and it took Dean a full second to realize he was talking about Castiel.

Dean nodded, and again asked, “What’s going on?”

Henrikson glanced at Jody. She set her mouth into a firm line, and she nodded at Bobby, whose frown grew deeper. He jerked his head to the side, motioning himself and Dean down the hall, and when they were a few yards away, he spoke.

“They want to wake up Cas.”

Dean’s brow furrowed. “I thought we couldn’t do that.”

“We’re not supposed to, no.” Bobby grimaced.

“So why are we even having this conversation?”

He sighed. “The only person who can tell us exactly what happened to Cas, is  _Cas_. He can help them find the guy that did it.”

Dean stared at him, hard. “Isn’t that  _their_  fucking job? To find this dude? Why the hell do they wanna risk...Bobby, Cas could be--” Dean couldn’t finish the sentence. He worked his jaw against the building rage in his throat. “I won’t risk it.”

“You wanna let this guy get away?”

“If it means the difference of Cas’s life? Hell yes!” Dean’s voice raised, and he glanced at the other party self-consciously, crossing his arms over his chest as he repeated much more quietly, “Hell yes.”

“Dean...” Bobby hesitated. “If there’s any chance to catch him, this is it.”

Dean shook his head, closing his eyes and leaning back against the wall. “But what if...” he whispered suddenly, then closed his lips.

“What if what?”

“What if he...” Doesn’t wake up? Wakes up but doesn’t remember? What if he wakes up and he is totally and completely  _changed_. Dean shook his head again. “He needs more time, Bobby.”

“Dean, we don’t have it.” Bobby sighed. “Let the doctor talk to you about this, ok? Let him walk you through it.” He hesitated, eyes darkening. “Dean, they  _technically_  don’t have to ask you, because you’re not  _technically_  family... They’re asking because they want you on board.”

Dean stared at him. Something vile was sitting within him, kicking its legs in fury, wanting to cry out and scream. Dean wanted to lose every sense of the control he had had for the last forty-eight hours. He felt small, he felt animal, and he had never felt like he had so little importance in his life. He wanted to say no, to  _yell_  no. He wanted to burst into the room behind him and shake Castiel’s shoulders, shout into his ears and make him wake up, take Dean’s hand, and run out the door like they could forget everything.

Dean barely felt himself nod. He was grateful for the railing behind him, so he could grip it as the doctor joined him at his side and walked him through the process. Even while he spoke, the anesthetist was coming around the corner, and three nurses were suiting up, gathering inside Castiel’s small room. Castiel would not be able to speak, and he would have difficulty moving. And when it was all done, they would put him back under. “We have done this kind of thing before,” the doctor said kindly. “His last CT scan showed improvement. Everything should go fine.”

But that was hardly any comfort at all. “Will I be able to talk to him?”

The doctor hesitated. “We want to limit the time of his consciousness, if we can. It would be ideal if it were no more than two minutes.”

Dean felt his heart sink, and he was suddenly so numb it was as though he had been dropped feet first into space. “So,  _no_.”

“We’ll see.”

“Doctor?” A nurse appeared from around the corner. “We’re ready.”

The doctor nodded, and turned to go inside. At the door, he paused and looked at Dean. “It would be best if you waited here.”

Dean stared at him. His mouth trembled around the no that he almost said, his throat working madly until he dipped his head into a nod, and stood outside, Bobby and Jody at his side. He was as still as a statue; he tried so hard not to move, not to listen, not to think. He shut his eyes.

Seconds ticked away. And then, through the muffled conversation of the staff, Dean heard the clear calls of, “Mr. Novak--Mr. Novak, stay calm. You’re in a hospital, you’re safe now. The tube in your throat--”

Dean didn’t hear anymore. He dropped his hands to his sides and almost ran through the door, but Bobby and Jody held him back, steering him away. He walked, paced, and threw his hands up to push against the wall. There was some kind of terrible sound coming from behind the door, and Dean was almost certain Castiel was choking. Dean felt like he could die to be so close and not able to help him, not able to touch him, to let him know he was there--

The door suddenly opened. Dean whirled around as the nurse peeked her head outside. “Mr. Winchester?”

Dean didn’t wait for further invite--he shoved past her, making his way through the sea of people, up and around, and then he was there at his side. Castiel’s eyes were barely open, trying to see through the fog and haze of his drugs, of his swollen skin. He saw Dean.

He reached his good hand up and Dean caught it, held it, squeezing tight. He didn’t care that there were so many strangers in the room; they weren’t there. Cas was awake, and Dean was here, and God, Cas was so weak his fingers were shaking. Dean ran his free hand across the top of Castiel’s brow, and he kissed it over and over again, pulling back to catch the tears that fell from Castiel’s eyes.

“Mr. Novak?”

Dean’s pressed his forehead against Castiel’s; neither of them moved.

“Mr. Novak?” Detective Henrikson asked again, a little louder.

Dean pulled away, just enough so that Castiel could see.

“We have some questions for you, Mr. Novak. Remember, blink once for yes and twice for--”

Castiel blinked, heavy and hard, and there was such a determination in his stare that Dean almost burst into laughter, because something brilliant, something brighter than sunshine, was swooping through his stomach bearing him several feet in the air. Castiel was weak, but he wasn’t gone. He had blinked like  _Cas_ \--with sass and with fire, and now nothing else mattered. Not one goddamn thing mattered, because he was going to be ok. Dean brought himself around and told himself to listen, biting his smile back and holding tightly to Castiel’s palm.

“Mr. Novak, are you aware of what has happened to you? Why you’re here in this hospital?”

Castiel hesitated, then blinked.

“You were taken, is that correct?”

Blink.

“Against your will?”

Castiel blinked long and hard, as if to shout out,  _Ye_ s _!_

“Mr. Novak--Do you know the person who did this to you?”

Castiel squeezed Dean’s hand. He blinked slowly. Yes. Yes, he did.

“Can you spell out his name for me on this?” The detective held up a poster, where the alphabet was printed in large, black letters.

Castiel untangled his fingers from Dean’s slowly. He drug his hand up, around, and trailed a finger to the letters p...a...u...l...n...o...v...a...k. He stared at the  _k_ , his finger trembling as he pressed it with finality. Dean clenched his teeth together so tightly they hurt.

“Thank you, Mr. Novak. Do you know where he took you?”

Castiel paused, seeming confused. He choked a little, clearly trying to speak and failing. A nurse took a step forward and leaned around Dean, double checking the plastic binding that held the breathing tube in place. Satisfied, she stepped back, and Detective Henrikson asked, “Could you identify it on a map?”

As he spoke, he produced a map of the local north east. Castiel lifted his finger and dragged it down to Pownal. The detective nodded. “We know you met with him there. Where did he take you after that?”

Castiel shrugged loosely with his hand, flipping it upside down and tossing it gently.

“Were you drugged?”

Castiel blinked.

The doctor nodded and whispered something to the detective about a blood toxicity test that wouldn’t come back for another week. The detective nodded. “Thank you, Mr. Novak. You’ve been very helpful.”

Castiel blinked several times, and Dean wasn’t sure if he was trying to communicate something, or simply trying to hold himself together.

“Is there anything else you can think of I should know?”

Castiel’s eyes screwed up, and eventually he tried to shake his head, but he couldn’t manage it with the brace secured tightly around his neck. So he blinked twice in a resigned fashion. The detective thanked him once more before nodding to the staff. “Get well soon, Mr. Novak.”

And he left the room. The doctor came around. “Alright, Mr. Novak, you did very well. We’re going to put you back under again--”

“Wait!” Dean practically shouted. “Just, wait, please--let me talk to him real quick, ok? Let me... let me talk to him.” Dean leaned as closely he could, arcing himself across the bed to face Castiel head on without hurting him. He brushed his hands around Castiel’s cheeks and lips, so tenderly, locking eyes and smiling. “Hey baby...”

Castiel smiled back as much as he could around the tube--he blinked hello.

“Did you know I was here? Could you hear me?”

Castiel blinked again, and tears fell from his eyes once more. Dean brushed them away.

“It’s ok, I’m not going anywhere, alright? They’re putting you to sleep again so you can get better, but I’m not going anywhere. I’ll stay right here and watch crappy TV until you decide you wanna get up and yell at me to turn it off, ok?”

Castiel lifted his hand slowly to Dean’s cheek, petting the scruff that grew there, and then he patted his own. Dean laughed suddenly. “Yeah, we’re burly, sexy men.”

They looked at each other, taking each other in for as long as they could, before the doctor tapped Dean on the shoulder. “Mr. Winchester...”

“Yeah, yeah ok.” Dean began to pull back, but Castiel clutched at him, so he acquiesced and stayed close. The anesthetist made her way over to Castiel’s IV drip with a shot.

“Alright, Mr. Novak, I’m gonna have you go ahead and count backwards in your head from ten...”

“I’ll be right here, sweetheart.” Dean said loudly. “Just get better, ok?”

Castiel squeezed his hand, and long before the mental count of ten, his eyes fluttered shut once more. As the room slowly cleared, Dean turned his head, catching the doctor at the door and choking out, “Thank you for letting me see him.”

The doctor nodded, a soft smile on his face. “Of course.”

And finally, when Dean was once again alone with Castiel, he threw his head back and let himself succumb. He fell back into the chair, his body racking with sob after crushing sob. He did not know if Bobby or Jody came back in, all he knew was that Castiel was going to be alright. For the first time since this whole thing had happened, it was going to be alright. He couldn’t stop crying.

Eventually, when all that was left of him were the stuttering remnants from his lungs, Dean suddenly remembered that he hadn’t told Castiel he loved him. So he sat up straight and he said it now outloud, to the quiet, rhythmic beeping, to the breathing machinery, tubes, and hoses that held his world together.

\------------------------------

Two days later, the built up fluids had evacuated Castiel’s chest. His lung was once again fully inflated, and he was gently weaned off the ventilator. Wheeled in for CT scans every six hours, the doctors finally felt that his brain had sufficiently recovered, and one day after he began breathing on his own, they woke him up.

His throat was raw, painfully ravaged by the intubator. He had difficulty swallowing, and when he spoke, he sounded more raspy than ever. But his face was looking better and better each day, and his stab wound was healing well, though it clearly pained him as he breathed. More often than not, it was better for him to sleep, better to sleep than to press the call button again for a dose of numbing morphine.

But for every moment he was awake, he was not alone. Dean helped spoon the jello to his lips, helped him to make his way to and from the bathroom, helped him to bathe. He helped him to laugh, though when he did, Castiel eventually clutched his side and winced, and Dean felt badly for it. But seeing him smile again was extraordinary. It almost made everything else go away.

Unanswered questions kept plaguing Dean, questions that had silenced themselves but were now resurfaced. There was still so much Dean did not understand. He didn’t want to ask until Castiel was stronger, but the words consumed Dean. They sat on his tongue, loud in the silence when neither of them were speaking. Dean couldn’t think of anything to say except  _why?_  Why did this happen?

But he didn’t speak it. The words escaped in hot air through his nose, tempering the brush of his fingertips through Castiel’s hair. Cas was asleep, neatly tucked into Dean’s shoulder; they squeezed themselves together on the bed each night. Dean, however, did not sleep; he couldn’t. And when they moved Castiel out of ICU and into a larger room downstairs, Dean chose to stay that night on the foldout couch. It was the first time he hadn’t been directly near Castiel’s side all week. The next morning, he awoke with such guilt. When Sam came by to visit with Cas, Dean finally left the hospital and went for a drive.

On the fifth day, Dean and Castiel received a knock on their door. Detective Victor Henrikson had returned, this time with his partner; they had some news.

Four days of hunting in a sea of papers, receipts, and people, and they were led to Pisgah State Park in New Hampshire, near where Castiel had been found. It was February--the parks were closed, and the mid-week snow flurry slowed their progress--but eventually they discovered the car, buried in the underbrush and the tangled tree limbs of its off-road journey.

“You found him?” Dean asked, breathless. He reached for Castiel’s hand, feeling how cold Cas suddenly was.

The detectives hesitated. “Mr. Novak, this is... your father hanged himself from a tree. The autopsy report is still pending. It might have happened two days after you were found, Mr. Novak, maybe sooner.”

A deep silence settled around them. Dean stared at Castiel, watching his eyes lower to the bed. Castiel’s lips seized shut and pinned themselves closed around his clenched jaw.

“I’m very sorry,” Detective Henrikson said. Castiel tilted his head, his brows deepening, his eyes still boring into his lap.

“This means, of course,” the detective continued. “Unfortunately we have no means of serving you the proper justice, the justice you deserve--it’s in God’s hands now, I’m afraid. I’m sorry that we cannot do more for you.”

Castiel looked up finally, as if seeing the room for the first time. “No, it’s alright,” he whispered, and then, almost in an afterthought. “Thank you for all your hard work.”

“If you can think of anything you need, or any questions you may have for us,” Henrikson’s partner extended a card to Castiel, which he took slowly. She stared at Castiel with wide, meaningful eyes. “Anything at all, please contact us.”

“I will.” Castiel said. He sounded drugged, robotic, as if he weren't there at all.

The detectives shook Dean’s right hand and Castiel’s left, and then they were gone. Dean swallowed roughly. Cas was still staring after them at the door, his breathing very shallow. Dean bent forward, pressing his hands into the flesh of the mattress, gritting his teeth. “Cas,” he said darkly, “I’m so sorry.”

Slowly, Castiel said, almost so quietly Dean couldn’t hear him, “Don’t be.”

Dean snapped his eyes to Castiel, who met his eyes briefly before staring down at his broken arm. His face was still swollen--yellow, purple, black and brown--a bandage was still wrapped around his skull, though looser and smaller than before. Dean couldn’t bear the sight of him, and he couldn’t bear their silence any longer. He wiped his hand across his mouth and paced to the opposite wall, leaning a palm against it and shaking his head. “Cas,” he said in a whisper, “Are we ever gonna talk about this?”

Castiel didn’t say anything, which was enough to make Dean turn around and catch Castiel’s gaze, see his overwhelmed eyes. Dean shook his head. “I can’t even begin to imagine, Cas. I... I need to talk about this.”

“Dean--” Castiel stuttered. “Please...”

“I don’t want to rush you, I’m--” He swallowed, finding it an almost unmanageable task. “If you don’t want to talk to me, then we can find someone else, maybe Sam or Bobby or, I don’t know, someone you trust.”

“Dean,” Castiel straightened as much as he could. “I trust you.”

Dean dropped his jaw, expelling a breathy, false laugh. He fumbled for a moment, trying to find something else to say, but ultimately he couldn't fight it anymore. “Why didn’t you tell me?”

Castiel blinked, his mouth shutting fast. He looked away, and Dean drove forward all the harder.

“Cas, I was  _upstairs_ , I was--I was right up the fucking stairs, and you  _left_ \--you went to Pownal?”

Castiel shut his eyes and nodded. “Yes,” he murmured.

“To meet him?”

Clutching his good hand in the bed sheets, Castiel dipped his head low as he murmured, even quieter, “Yes.”

“You...” Dean felt like he was falling, like the room was spinning. He shook his head. “You  _went_  to him. You were afraid of him! How did you even--Cas, how did--”

“He sent the package, Dean. He knew.”

“Knew what?”

Castiel’s breathing was becoming irregular. He leaned back and drug his eyes to the ceiling, running a hand across his brow none-too-gently and wincing. “He knew where I was--he had found me. I had no choice.”

“The hell you didn’t.”

“There was a small card in the package, Dean, with an address printed on it: the hotel in Pownal. It was his writing, Dean, I knew it--”

“So you just fucking left? You didn’t say--you didn’t say one goddamn word to me!” Dean was shouting, and he couldn’t stop himself.

“Dean--I had to protect you.”

“What the hell are you talking about?”

Castiel stared at him, emphatic. “If he knew where I lived, then he knew about you. I couldn’t risk something happening to you.”

Dean found himself quite suddenly filled with rage. “That’s the biggest load of shit I have ever fucking heard.”

“Dean, it’s not--”

“You goddamn knew he was a threat--you’ve fucking had  _panic attacks_  in front of me about him. All this time together, and you just went to him without saying a word--and you’re putting this on me? That you were trying to protect  _me?_ ” Dean stared, aghast.

“No! No, Dean, I’m--” Castiel tried to get up, and winced, clutching at his side, and for a moment everything stilled between them. In that moment, their voices calmed, and Castiel, his voice shaking, said quietly, “Dean. I messed up. I thought I could handle it on my own.”

Dean stared at him, incredulous. “You  _messed up_? You almost fucking  _died_ , Castiel.”

Castiel hesitated. “I bought a knife from a pawn shop before I got there...”

Dean laughed suddenly, cruelly, staring fire across the room. “Oh, that’s great. How did that go, exactly?”

“Not so well, actually.” He glanced down at his side, and Dean clamped his mouth shut, blood flushing his face and chest. Castiel had been stabbed with the very weapon he had brought to protect himself. 

Castiel stared at Dean. “Dean, I’m sorry.”

There it was. The apology that Dean had, for so long, secretly been longing to hear. And now that he had, it felt like nothing. No, it felt worse than nothing--it hit his breast and thudded straight onto the floor. Dean felt worthless.

“I should have told you--I should have--the moment that package arrived. I guess I was panicked and I...” Castiel shook his head, and Dean found himself thinking just how ironic it was that, now Castiel was talking, all Dean wanted was for him to stop. “I should have told you I changed my name to hide myself. That’s one of the reasons I was so concerned when our business started to do well...” He shook his head, something very like desperation crossing his gaze. “I didn’t want to be found.”

“Yeah well, you were.” Dean was staring at the floor; Castiel tried to stand up again, slowly, attempting to heave his legs over the side of the bed. He wasn’t having much luck, and Dean couldn’t bring himself to aide him.

“I should have told you, Dean.”

“Cas...” Dean said, if only to make everything stop for a moment. His brain was spinning out of control, plummeting to his heart and beating it senseless. He didn’t understand how he was still standing, except that he knew he couldn’t bear to fall.

“Dean--” Castiel was about to speak, to say something else, to say something more, and God but Dean couldn’t take one more word.

“You didn’t trust me.” He stared at Castiel, frozen half-off the bed, staring back wildly. “You didn’t trust  _me_.” He opened his mouth, needing to say his next words but wishing he didn’t have to. “I have trusted you more than anyone-- _anyone_ \--who wasn’t my family. And  _you_?” Dean opened his arms. “Cas, what am I to you?”

“Dean, I  _love_  you.”

Those words finally said, said with such feeling that Dean felt them across the room, slamming against his heart. His lips betrayed him, trembling, and he had to look away. “No you don’t, man,” he said quietly. “You don’t even know...”

Dean looked back up and stopped himself. Castiel stared at him. They each waited for the other to speak. When an unbearable length of time had passed, Dean took a deep breath, and slowly crossed the space between them to Castiel’s bedside. Castiel stared up at him, opening his mouth to speak but shutting it when Dean gently lifted Castiel’s shoulder and hip, and helped him back into bed before turning to the nearby couch.

He didn’t sit; he could feel Castiel looking at him. For a moment, Dean eyed the door. His questions had been answered, and he did not know what to do. He was so tired. His limbs felt liquid, and he eventually sank down into the cushions, his back to Castiel. “You should get some rest,” he said quietly.

He closed his eyes and darkness overtook him. He didn’t think, he didn’t feel. For the first time in a week, he fell into blissful unconsciousness; he could not stand to be awake any longer.


	20. Fractures

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> /ˈfrakCHər/  
> Noun  
> The cracking or breaking of a hard object or material.

Almost two weeks after his discovery, Castiel was discharged from the hospital. His bag was loaded with prescriptions; he was taking antibiotics to fight the infections in his wounds, and the doctors wanted him to have immediate access to heavy pain medication should he need it.

Castiel was improving daily. He was able to walk on his own, albeit with the use of a cane and only for short distances, and he still needed assistance to stand or to sit. It didn’t hurt him quite as much to breathe, though he did get winded easily. The neck brace, which he had worn as a precaution for his bruised spine, had been removed, and the swelling of his face had reduced so greatly that all that remained now were a few yellow bruises.

Brattleboro Memorial was an hour from Bennington on the winding road through the Appalachian Mountains; it simply wasn’t practical for Castiel to continue his Physical Therapy or have his checkups there. So the hospital transferred his care to Southwestern Vermont in Bennington, and when he took his leave for good, a large crew of nurses and doctors made sure to come and say goodbye.

It was Sunday, and that meant Sam had been there to help out all day and yesterday as well. Dean was relieved to have him near; what with his visits, and Bobby and Jody’s visits, Dean did not have to stress himself to make conversation with Castiel. They supplied it. It wasn’t that Dean and Castiel no longer spoke, it was simply that, when they did, their conversations were always loaded with the unfinished argument neither one of them felt like resuming. Dean didn’t even know if he could classify it as an argument. He simply felt drained, like he barely had the energy to smile. The heavy weight between them wasn’t budging, and the hospital felt suffocating; Dean couldn’t wait to get back to Bennington.

Every belonging was now packed up. Toothbrush, toothpaste: Sam had brought in extra clothing for Dean and eventually Castiel, when he was allowed to wear something other than his hospital gown. “You didn’t really have a lot of comfy pants,” Sam told him. “So I’m letting you borrow some of mine, ok?”

Castiel raised an eyebrow. “I’ll drown in these, Sam.”

“They’ve got drawstrings.”

Castiel had received a cheesy get-well balloon from Jody and Bobby, and he had acquired a small stack of cards addressed to Castiel “Allen” from a few folks in town, patrons of the restaurant who were glad to hear he was back up on his feet. Sam, it turns out, had called back every single person they had met with and talked to during their search for Castiel, informing them that he was found and on the mend. Sam hadn’t revealed many details, of course, but he had taken care of everything he could. Dean had stared at his brother, a band tightening around his heart until he had had to look away, blinking back his emotions and muttering his thanks.

The business of the hospital was finally closed, and the three of them were simply left to wait for the wheelchair that would take Castiel down to the entrance. This turned out to be quite a lengthy process. Not much was said between them as the minutes ticked by. Occasionally, Sam and Castiel would speak to each other and chuckle, while Dean toyed with his car keys. He was losing patience. “Think I’m gonna go take the rest of the stuff out to the car and bring it around.”

He was almost to the door, his fingers stretched out for the handle, when it opened. A young woman in light pink scrubs peered her head inside, pushing a large wheelchair in front of her. “You needed the chair?” She asked Dean, the first person she saw and the closest to her.

“Yes--well, not me, but--Cas--” Dean stood back and waved her into the room. Castiel began shifting forward onto the edge of the bed aided by Sam, pulling his cane into his left hand from where it lay on the sheets.

The young woman seemed frozen. She was staring at Castiel and had to blink several times before she managed to make her way into the room. Dean, still half-poised to leave and get the car, watched her carefully. His eyes darted from her face, down to her name tag. What he read grabbed his heart and ripped into down into his gut.

By now, of course, she had shaken herself, and had positioned the wheelchair just to the side of the bed, coming around to help Sam in lifting and angling Castiel’s shoulders to sit him down. Neither one of them had looked up; neither one of them knew just who was helping them. So Dean found his voice and loosened his tongue. “Sarah Blake?”

The girl snapped her head back up, her long, dark braids swinging at her side. She swallowed, and said quietly, “Yes.”

Castiel’s face darted up, his eyes widening. His jaw dropped and he reached out his good hand, finding her arm and taking it gently. She turned at his touch, and they looked at each other.

Dean had tried to find her already, twice. The first time, he had made it all the way to the NICU counter to ask for her. The nurses gave him some questioning looks, but Dean eventually made up something good enough to gain the information from them that she was off that day. So he returned to the room, vowing to make a second attempt. Which he did--and then he changed his mind halfway down the NICU corridors.

He had been walking past brand new parents, new siblings, new families, new fathers at the window looking at their just-born creations. Dean was standing by as a witness to their changing worlds, and he had felt so immensely small and stupid that he turned away. Sarah Blake was at work--this was her  _job_ \--he did not want to get in her way, to get in the way of something that was so much more brilliant. So Dean chickened out, because, after all this time, he still didn’t know what to say to her. Even now, as she was standing in the room with them, his brain felt simple.

She knelt down by Castiel’s side to get a better look at him, allowing him to take her hand and squeeze it. She was smiling sweetly, her face purely angelic. Dean shook his head--this girl was a goddamn angel, and he had to say something to her--so he spoke suddenly. “I was gonna find you and bring you flowers.”

She looked back at Dean with a smile. “I wish you had found me. But don’t worry about any flowers, I’m allergic to most. I’m allergic a lot of things, actually. Not surprisingly, I work in a hospital, so I'm always close to the meds!” She laughed, and then suddenly stopped. “I’m sorry, that was a really bad joke--I don’t know why I said it, I just--” She stood up suddenly. “I wanted to come see you earlier, but I didn’t know if that would be alright, and then they told me you were leaving today so I just... I had to come by.”

Castiel looked up at her. “I am so very glad you did.”

She blinked brightly at him, turning her fingers in his to shake his hand. “I’m Sarah Blake.”

“Castiel Novak, and it is very nice to finally meet you.” They looked at each other for a long moment, and then he nodded to his companions, “This is my boyfriend, Dean, and his brother, Sam.”

She shook their hands in turn; Sam seemed rather taken aback. “You’re the one that saved Cas?”

She shook her head, in a bit of shock. “Right place, right time, is all.” She shook her head, looking back down at Castiel with a smile. “You look much better now.”

“I  _feel_  much better.”

The room settled into a loaded silence, which Sarah eventually broke. “I really don’t want keep you any longer--I’m sure you’re anxious to get out of here.” They laughed kindly, and she looked down at Castiel once again. “I’m so glad I got to meet you, Castiel. And I’m so glad you’re alright.”

Castiel clutched her hand once more, emotion gripping his throat, making his voice raw as he said, “Thank you, Sarah Blake.”

She nodded, squeezed his palm, and then slowly made her towards the door. “You need any help with the wheelchair?”

“No,” Sam said slowly, still looking a bit dumbstruck. “We’re good.”

“Ok then--well--it was lovely to meet you guys--Sam, Dean.”

Dean shook her hand again, staring at her hard, his lips crushing together. “Thank you.”

She nodded again, her eyes shining, and she waved goodbye; she was gone. The three men stood in a dumbed silence, and it was a long moment before any of them could speak, or Dean could move.

Eventually, the three of them made their way down the hall, through the elevator doors, and out into the waiting area, Castiel and Dean waving goodbye to the nurses they had gotten to know, Dean telling each one thank you as he passed--it seemed now, since the words had passed his lips, he was unable to stop saying them. Meeting Sarah, finally shaking her hand, made Dean’s heart feel enormous. She was the form of good in the world, proof that there were decent people with decent hearts, and Dean suddenly realized he was surrounded by them.

When he had pulled the car around to Sam and Castiel, he watched his brother carefully as Sam helped Castiel into it. Dean scooped the luggage into the back, pushing the balloon down under the front seat so it wouldn’t be a distraction while driving, and then he straightened, biting his lip. Sam still looked positively dreamy, and Dean smirked. “Did we get everything?”

Sam nodded. “I double checked.”

“You sure?” Dean narrowed his gaze. “Could have sworn we left something behind up there...”

As Sam furrowed his brow in confusion, Dean clarified. He reached out and poked his brother’s chest, just above his heart. Sam blinked, flushed, then rolled his eyes. Castiel let out a none-too-subtle cackle that he covered with his hand.

Sam grimaced. “Guys--come on.”

“She was cute,” Dean said, smiling.

“She was  _lovely_ ,” Castiel said, and Dean tossed a glance in his direction.

“Go ask her for coffee, Sam,” Dean said. “And then, you know, marry her.”

“Yeah, yeah, I’ll go do that.” Sam waved them off. “Thank you very much for the advice.”

“Well, we already know she’s kind of amazing,” Dean said sincerely. “Wouldn’t mind having her for a sister-in-law.”

Sam finally turned red, and he turned to walk away, clearing his throat. “You guys need any help at the house?”

Dean was all for keeping Sam around as long as possible, but Castiel spoke for them. “I think we’ll be alright. Thank you, Sam.”

“Of course. Maybe dinner tomorrow?”

“Yeah,” Dean nodded. “Sounds good.”

Sam waved a hand and, before he walked out of range, Dean shouted after him. “Sam, you’re going the wrong way--she’s back  _inside_  the hospital!”

“ _Goodbye_ , Dean. Bye, Cas!”

“Goodbye, Sam!” Castiel called in reply, and Sam turned the corner and was gone. And then it was just the two of them. Dean glanced down at Cas, his hand on the car-door.

“You ready?” he asked softly. Castiel nodded.

“Let’s go home.”

“Yeah...”  _Home_. Dean swallowed and licked his lips, nodding as he shut the door. As they trundled along Vermont-7, bending and sighing up and down through the hills, Castiel reached out his left hand to Dean across the seat. After a moment, Dean took it, held it briefly, then returned it to Castiel’s lap. It was a long car ride, the silence only cut by the radio, which faded in and out between the mountains and left nothing to listen to but static.

Dean couldn’t believe how long it had been since he had seen the house. A few snow flurries had fallen in the interim of Castiel’s hospital stay, and some patches still clung to the ground, refusing to melt under the bright, hot sun that stayed up longer and longer as the days wore on. The pathway through the orchard was breathtakingly familiar, and the little gray house looked so inviting that it clutched Dean’s heart, making his stomach turn flips. He had never really felt homesick in his life--certainly not for a specific place. He had felt homesick for people, or even homesick for the very idea of being homesick, but now... now he understood. Now that he was back, parking the car and getting out to walk around to the passenger side, he stared up at the house’s beautiful face, and he understood that feeling perfectly. It was overwhelming.

He turned to Castiel, catching the look in his eyes and realizing Castiel was probably feeling that exact same way. So Dean quickly opened the door, tucking his hands under Castiel’s shoulder to help him out. Castiel clutched at his cane as he eased his weight over from his right side, and after a long moment, as they looked up together, he whispered, “I didn’t think I’d ever see it again...”

It was the closest he had ever come to talking about his experience, and he seemed so fragile and exposed, that Dean took his arm and guided him up the steps. When Dean turned the keys in the lock, Castiel tried in vain to wipe his eyes--his left hand was occupied in supporting himself with the cane, and his right arm was still encased in a cast, making his task impossible. Dean swung the door open, and walked through, leading Cas inside as they stared in surprise.

There was a large banner hung in the threshold to the kitchen, and a few balloons tied to the banister by the stairs. “Welcome home, Cas,” Dean read aloud, and Castiel gave a watery laugh. Dean felt himself smile as he shut the door behind them, making his way into the kitchen, taking stock of the dish-free sink, of the flowers arranged in a vase on the dining room table. Sammy and Bobby--maybe even Jody--must have stopped by to clean and prepare the house for Castiel’s return.

Castiel had followed into the doorway. “How did they even get in?”

Dean shook his head. “Sam borrowed my keys to get the mail for us. He must have made a copy, the little sneak.”

Something else caught his gaze on the dining room table. He walked over and lifted a note that was scribbled down in Sam’s writing. Dean read it to Cas. “ _Hey guys--surprise and all that, and most importantly: welcome home! There are two meals in the fridge, and don’t worry, Bobby cooked them, not me. Hah hah!_ ” Dean shook his head.

“Did he actually write ‘hah hah’?” Castiel asked, and Dean nodded, continuing.

“ _We’re a phone call away if you need any of us. Get well soon, Cas! -- Sam_.” Dean tilted his head, bringing the letter close to read the small print under Sam’s name. “ _(And Bobby and Jody.)_ ”

Dean looked up at Castiel, standing just inside the kitchen, and he grinned.

“This is so sweet of them,” Castiel said softly. “All of this.”

“Wait a minute...” Dean swung around to the fridge and opened it. “Did he--oh yes. Cas--Bobby made us pie.”

Dean laughed out loud, bringing out the circular pan and in two seconds, he was at the counter and opening up cabinets, pulling down two plates. “You want?”

“No, thank you.” Castiel watched Dean as he sliced open the pie, clumsy in his haste. “Not just yet, anyway.”

“Oh,” Dean mumbled. “It’s blueberry. Hell yes.”

He was fishing out a fork from a drawer, and had spooned the pie halfway to his lips when Castiel spoke. “I love you, Dean Winchester.”

Dean looked up. Castiel’s eyes were full of warmth, almost overflowing and incredibly hard to meet. Castiel licked his lips and spoke again, his voice tight. “And I’m so glad you’re here.”

He smiled softly, and, after a long moment, turned and wandered out of the kitchen, saying nonchalantly, “I think I’ll watch some TV.”

Dean stared down at the kitchen tile, setting his plate on the counter. His heart was in his throat and it was incredibly difficult to breathe. A part of him was tugging on him, telling him he needed to go help Castiel to sit on the couch, because Castiel was going to try to do it himself and he would probably pull some stitches somewhere, and that meant Dean needed to move quickly, but he couldn’t. He felt rooted to the spot, and only the sound of Castiel dropping his cane on the hardwood made Dean jerk into action. He darted into the living room, only to discover Castiel grinning up at him from the couch.

“I did it!” He said, holding out his left arm in pride. He had, in fact, seated himself, although in a lopsided fashion that clearly didn’t look comfortable.

Dean shook his head. “You could have hurt yourself.”

“Yes, but--I didn’t!” Castiel smiled, a little out of breath as he lifted and bumped his hips into something closer to sitting. Dean rolled his eyes.

“Yeah well, you left the remote way over here, Einstein. Kinda hard to watch TV from the couch if you can’t even turn it on.” Dean stalked across the room and grabbed the remote, handing it to Castiel and pursing his lips. Castiel accepted it, brushing his fingers across Dean’s purposefully as he said, “Thank you.”

“Yeah, yeah...” Dean stormed back into the kitchen to finish his pie over the kitchen sink.

\--------------------------

Weeks passed. Castiel moved easier and easier each day, helped along by his physical therapist. The sessions were grueling, pushing him just to the point of collapse but not beyond. He went four times a week--Dean drove him, of course, because he could not drive himself, and every time Dean picked him up, he was sore and wincing, falling asleep before they even made it back to their door. Dean would wake him and help him up the stairs, easing him down into the bed as carefully as he could. Dean was not a fool; he knew Castiel was pushing himself too hard. But, then again, everything seemed pushed too hard these days. 

Castiel’s concussions seemed to have left him with periods of unexplained exhaustion and headaches, and although those lessened with time, it did give Dean many hours alone downstairs. He made himself busy with the house and, of course, preparing the orchard for spring. He realized that he was over a month behind on ordering in bees, and he was concerned he would not get any to aid pollination this season. He placed in every call that he could, and when he finally had everything arranged, he sat back against the kitchen chair and shook his head. Normal. This was normal. But how could it be? What was normal anymore?

Castiel was napping upstairs. As Dean had helped him to lay down, he had brushed the hair back from Castiel’s forehead before he stood to leave. Castiel trailed his hand down from Dean’s elbow to catch at his fingers. “Stay with me?” he had asked.

Castiel always asked Dean to stay, before every nap and each night. Each night, after Dean walked behind him, watching as he slowly, tremulously climbed the stairs. Each night, as Dean sat at his bedside and caressed Castiel’s cheeks. Castiel always asked him, and Dean always shook his head no. And then he would head downstairs to the couch, bury himself underneath the quilts that were folded there, and would drown out the silence with the television as he fell asleep.

He didn’t know what he was doing. A part of him wanted nothing more than to stay, to curl up behind Castiel and wrap his arms around him. Dean was able to lie to himself for a while. He tricked himself by thinking that it would be better for them both if he let Castiel have good rest, even though neither of them really slept that well without each other by their side. But Dean couldn’t bring himself to bend. So he sat down alone and pretended he was the only one keeping misery company.

Castiel had yet to see a therapist. Dean suggested it. Sam suggested it. Jody and Bobby both held out cards and with names and numbers listed. Even Castiel’s doctors and physical therapists had asked him if he was seeing someone. Castiel lied to the doctors, but he wouldn’t lie to Dean. He kept the events of those two days trapped inside. He remained impassive, almost unmovable, even when Jody and some of her boys drove Castiel’s car and cell-phone up the to the house one day after their return. “We don’t need them to investigate anymore,” she had said with a smile. “So your car will be here when you’re able to drive it!”

Castiel had nodded, thanked her, and had invited the company in for a visit. He seemed fine. He seemed fine as well, when, two days later, he received a phone call from Detective Victor Henriksen. Dean looked up from the scattered hospital paperwork on the table, bill after bill that made him simultaneously grateful and resentful for insurance. Castiel stood and walked hallway to the kitchen, leaning against the doorway in lieu of his cane, clutching his cell-phone to his ear.

“...Mm-hmm,” he had said. “I see.” A long pause. “No... yes, I’m fine with that... I appreciate the offer, but that won’t be necessary at all. Thank you... Uh huh... yes, you too.”

He hung up the phone, staring down at it.

“Who was that?” Dean asked.

“Henriksen--he was checking up on me, of course, and, uh...” Castiel paused and shook his head. “He wanted to know what to do with my father’s remains.”

Dean watched his friend carefully. After a long moment, where Castiel seemed frozen, Dean said quietly, “What did you say?”

“Huh? Oh, they’re going to burn him.”

“You alright with that?”

“I couldn’t care less.” A large, fake smile plastered itself across his cheeks, and he pocketed his phone. “Do we have any more of that pie left?”

“Yeah, one piece,” Dean mumbled quietly. For a long time after that, as he and Castiel sorted through the papers together, Dean wondered if he should ask about it. But there was only so much of the situation Dean felt like he had a right to, and certainly less if Castiel still wouldn’t trust him enough to speak about it. It hurt Dean more than he could possibly say.

Dean felt like there was something black inside of him, hollowing out the glow that had just weeks ago been his to own. Castiel had always been secretive, but never like this. Never in a way that was so endlessly damaging. Reminding himself to be happy and grateful did not help at all, nor did it help when, every day, more than once, Castiel would look at him and say “I love you” like it was true. It was a punch to the gut, and Dean was never able to say it back.

On the fourth week after Castiel’s welcome home, when the Mid-March air was still crisp but whispering promises of life, there came a knock at the door. Dean and Castiel looked at each other--neither had been expecting anyone--and with a little hesitance, Dean stood to answer the door. A few of the neighboring ladies had brought over casseroles good-naturedly, knowing that Castiel wasn’t well. But it seemed a bit late for that kind of thing to be happening, even though the news was still circulating that some questionable, traumatic  _thing_  had happened. Sam continuously assured them that no one knew the whole story, overhearing bits and pieces of communal gossip at his work. The relief their privacy offered was immeasurable.

As Dean made it to the door, however, he could clearly see through the paneled glass that this wasn’t a local lady paying a visit. A tall, thin man in a suit stood behind the door, a traveling briefcase in his hand. Frowning, Dean turned the knob and opened the door ever so slightly. “Yes?”

“Mr. Novak?” asked the man, looking harried and more than a little irritated.

“No.” Dean opened the door a little wider. “Can I help you?”

The man sighed dramatically, staring down at the porch in defeat. “So this is not the residence of Mr. Castiel Novak?”

Dean narrowed his eyes. “I didn’t say that.”

By this time, of course, Castiel had stood, making his way to peek over Dean’s shoulder. The stranger caught sight of him, and asked, with renewed vigor, “Are you Mr. Novak?”

“I am,” Cas said, and Dean moved out of the way just slightly as the man held out his right hand, seeming a little thrown off when Castiel shook it with his left.

“You’re a difficult man to find, Mr. Novak.”

Castiel’s gaze flattened. “I wish that were true.”

“I’m Zachary Smith, I represent your father’s estate.”

The man lifted up his briefcase as proof, an ingratiating smirk on his face. Dean moved out of the way, reluctantly allowing the man to step inside the house. He tried to catch Castiel’s eyes, but Cas didn’t look back. The man, Zachary Smith, worked his way through the living room, speaking the whole time.

“I couldn’t find your number or address anywhere--very nice home, by the way--and every number I found seemed or was wrong. But then for a while there we weren’t even sure if anything had actually happened to your father at all, so of course we had to confirm that. And then I had to find  _you_  and get visual confirmation on  _you_ and--may I set up in here?” The man pointed to the dining room table, hardly waiting for confirmation at all as he opened his briefcase and began pulling out files.

“Set up?” Castiel’s voice had dipped into the hollow, invisible tone Dean hadn’t heard since they were in the hospital. 

The man hummed a little, nodding. “Well, we have some paperwork to go over. Not a lot, of course, but death is a nasty business, and we’ve got to get signatures!”

Dean crossed his arms, standing in the doorway to the living room. This man talked a little too gleefully about death and was intruding in their space a little too freely. Dean very much wanted him to leave.

“It is a shame,” said Zachary Smith, pausing in his business to look up, “That he was cremated. Your father’s will requested that he be buried in Burbank.”

“I think it’s the mortuary policy here,” Castiel said quietly, seating himself gingerly opposite the man. Castiel suddenly seemed to remember himself and looked up. “Can I get you something to drink?”

“Water would be great.”

Of course, Castiel  _had_  asked, but the man seemed so completely self-absorbed and busy that it must have completely missed his notice that Castiel was walking with a cane. Castiel awkwardly made to stand again, but Dean tapped his shoulder, muttering, “I got it, babe.”

Zachary Smith looked up at this, opened his mouth to question them, then clearly decided not to. Dean frowned and sneered at him, thinking that he could get this man a unclean glass to drink from and he would completely deserve it. But still, if for Castiel’s sake alone, Dean pulled a fresh glass from the cabinet, filled it from the tap, and walked it over.

“Oh--” said the man, putting on a face that he clearly thought was charming. “Could I have some ice?”

Dean pursed his lips. “We don’t have ice.”

“Dean...” Castiel said quietly, “I believe you’ll find some in the freezer.”

Dean gritted his teeth together, and eventually returned to the icebox and plopped one single ice cube in before returning it. Zachary Smith barely looked up.

“Alright now, Mr. Novak. First of all, let me just say, I am so, so sorry for your loss. This is a difficult time in anyone’s life, and the very least we can do is provide the last will and testament.”

Dean leaned in the doorframe, fucking amazed at how this man seemed able to change his face and timbre at the drop of a hat. His game was, apparently, finally on, but he wasn’t nearly as good of an actor as he thought he was. Dean folded his arms and glared into the room.

“I do have your father’s last wishes here, and of course I will answer any and all questions about his estate.

“Preliminaries here, just to confirm: you are, in fact, Castiel Novak, the only adopted son of Mr. and Mrs. Paul Franklin Novak?”

“I am.”

“Good. Now then, let’s begin.  _I, Paul Franklin Novak, of 321 Glenoaks Avenue, Burbank, California, declare that this is my Last Will and Testament. All prior wills and codicils are revoked. In the event of my death, I should wish to be interred next to my wife in our plot in Burbank’s Forest Lawn._  Which, of course,” Zachary Smith looked up, “Was not communicated in time, but no matter--we can take his ashes there. In fact I can take them back with me, or perhaps you would like to?”

“I don’t have them,” Castiel said.

“Oh. Oh, well. I suppose I’ll contact the uh, the mortuary...” Zachary Smith seemed blown off course for a moment. He shook his head and returned to the paper. “Now then, let’s skip ahead a bit to where you come in... Ah yes.  _I give and bequeath all of my personal investments, property, and wealth, to my only son, Castiel Novak--_ ”

“What?” Castiel said, almost a whisper.

Dean unfolded his arms and straightened. “What did you say?”

Zachary Smith, an insufferable, ignorant smirk on his face, read again. “ _I give and bequeath all of my_ \--he’s giving everything to you, Mr. Novak.”

When Dean and Cas did not supply the reactions Zachary Smith was clearly looking for, he stared between them. “Son,” he said, waving a hand in front of Castiel’s face. “You’ve just inherited everything from your father. Do you understand that?”

Dean stepped closer to the table, turning to look at Castiel, finding his jaw lax and his eyes wide. “But I don’t...” Cas said slowly. “I don’t want it.”

Zachary Smith shrugged. “Well, it’s yours now. All I need is a signature, and we can--”

Castiel stood very suddenly, shaking as he applied weight to his left knee, still wrapped and immoble in a brace. “I don’t understand.”

“When was this updated?” Dean asked. “The will?”

“Umm...” Zachary Smith hesitated, sorting through his papers. When he found the one he was looking for, he pulled a face in surprise. “Huh. Six months ago.”

“Six...  _six months_?” Castiel breathed. “Six months ago?”

“Uh, yeah.” When Castiel didn’t respond again, Zachary Smith stood and began to return the files to his briefcase. “Look, Mr. Novak--the money is yours. I understand this is a difficult time, and it’s not much compensation for your loss. But I just need your signature here, ok? So I can go back to my bosses and tell them that I did my job.”

“Shut the hell up,” Dean couldn’t stop himself. He grabbed the paper from Zachary Smith’s hands. “And get out of our house.”

The man stood, in shock. “I need that!”

“We’ll mail it you. Get out.”

He grabbed the man’s arm and began hauling him to the door, ignoring his calls of protest. “Hey--you can’t do--you can’t--”

Dean opened the door, thundering, “If you had any idea what he’s been through--” He tossed him outside. “As it is, go fuck yourself!”

“You think he’d be happier--he’s a million--!”

Dean slammed the door in his face, so hard that the glass trembled. He pushed his hands against on the doorframe and heaved against it, his arms quivering. It wasn’t until he heard the man’s car start and disappear down the hill, that Dean allowed himself to exhale and turn back, finding Castiel still in the dining room. “Cas?”

He rounded the corner, seeing Castiel had not moved from where he stood. “Cas, you ok?”

Castiel did not respond. His lips were slightly parted and his shoulders shook gently.

“That guy was an asshole, he--” Dean stopped. He stared closely at Cas, close enough to see the quiver of his nostrils, to see his eyelashes shake under the weight of the tears collecting there and coursing silently down his face. “Cas...” Dean said softly. He reached out carefully, freezing when Castiel jerked away, his one good hand clenching. Something was radiating off of him in waves, terrifying to behold, something that made Dean take a step back.

“Cas...”

“Son of a bitch...” Castiel whispered. And Dean knew he wasn’t talking about him. Suddenly, Castiel slammed the chair out of his way and shouted, “You son of a  _bitch!_ ”

He was out of the door, leaving his cane and aided by fury alone, hobbling across the porch, down across the lawn, where the grass was just beginning to grow green, and he cried out, his voice hoarse and wild, screaming up to the heavens in words without structure, without meaning, without hope. Dean followed at a run, freezing on the porch steps, his hackles rising at such a sound, staring at Cas’s form as Cas tried in vain to throw his arms out--in vain, because he was still bound in a cast. He watched as Castiel tried in vain to kick as he screamed, but he could not do so. His one good knee, already over-exerted with carrying the whole of him, suddenly collapsed, and Castiel crumpled on the ground, his whole body shaking with cries that turned into sobs. He threw pebbles, grass, fallen branches, anything his hand could find. He threw them only a few feet because that was all his left arm could give. And then he fell forward, clutching at his chest and side, palming at his forehead.

And when he began rocking himself back and forth, when his cries turned to groans turned to whimpers, Dean slowly shifted his feet into action. He crossed the distance between them and folded his legs to sit, his knee barely brushing against Castiel’s thigh. Slowly, Dean lifted a hand and placed it gently on Castiel’s back.

Castiel looked up at him, his eyes rimmed in red, his face covered in tears and his nose running wild. “Dean,” he moaned softly, hardly anything left to his voice. “Dean,  _why?_ ” And saying it of course, he started anew, his tears falling fresh and his lips peeling away from his teeth in despair.

Cautiously, Dean opened his legs and scooted around, near enough until he was able to surround Castiel, and then Castiel flung his arm under Dean’s, burying his head into the crook of Dean’s shoulder and sobbing madly. When he spoke, he followed thirty confused and derailed trains of thought that Dean struggled to piece together. “I don’t deserve to...” he started, then, “Dean I’m so sorry, please...Why did he do this, Dean?... What’s wrong with me?”

“Nothing’s wrong with you,” Dean whispered.

“This is all my fault, all of it! I should have come to you, I should have come to you...” Castiel said, so torn now that he was barely audible, his breath rocketing in violently, his fingers working Dean’s shirt to tatters, twisting and pulling it. Dean just held him tighter. And eventually, the things that Castiel were saying, the horrible workings of his mind, settled into silence, and Dean rocked him gently, hushing him, trailing fingers through his hair and kissing his brow.

After a long, long time, Castiel was silent. The wind had chilled them immensely. The sun hid its face in and out of clouds, and Dean wondered if even spring would warm them. “Cas,” he whispered into the dark mass of hair clutched to his lips. “Will you talk about it now? Please?”

Dean felt Castiel’s nose brush against his neck as he nodded, and Dean’s heart burst in relief.

“It doesn’t have to be to me, Cas--I just need... I need you to not hurt anymore.”

Castiel pulled back suddenly, taking a deep breath. He unwound his fingers from the stretched fabric of Dean’s shirt and put his hand alongside Dean’s face. He was inches away, and he looked almost hollow. “I will talk to you.”

Dean blinked. “Yeah?”

“Yes...” Cas whispered, his eyes shuttering closed. He swallowed roughly, and then he said, “Dean,” even softer. He tilted his head, leaned closer, and gently brushed their lips together.

Dean’s breath caught in his throat and something burned inside him, straight from his chest to his throat. He stiffened, but after a moment of feeling Castiel’s warm breath on the side of his cheek, after a moment of inhaling him so close, Dean allowed his lips to loosen, and he kissed Castiel back. It wasn’t a long kiss; it was dry and chaste, but Dean’s heart felt ravaged after it. It was the first time they had kissed since the hospital, when Castiel had awoken and discovered his mouth to be free of the breathing tube. He had been groggy, but he’d clutched at Dean as soon as he could and dragged their mouths together. They had kissed often in that little room, until Dean simply couldn’t anymore.

When Castiel pulled away, he tucked his forehead against Dean’s and exhaled, moving his fingers back down to Dean’s shirt and twisting there again. Dean swallowed, breathing heavily, and was so thankful Castiel did not say  _I love you_ \--Dean thought he might have fractured apart to hear it one more time. Instead, he pulled back and stood slowly, untangling his limbs from Castiel’s. “Come on...” he mumbled, helping Castiel to stand. “I’m your cane, ok?”

Castiel’s muscles had truly exhausted themselves. Dean had to all but carry Castiel up the stairs, and when they got back inside, Cas did not want to let go. So Dean hobbled them over to the couch and negotiated Castiel’s release, just to come together again when they both sat.

“What do we do..?” whispered Castiel, his lips close to Dean’s ear. And Dean couldn’t be quite sure what he was talking about.

“We’ll figure it out,” he said, and he hoped to God he was right.


	21. Forgiveness

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The truth and forgiveness.

Late into March, well past the first day of spring, Castiel was at the doctor’s for his last weekly checkup. His physical therapy would still continue, but, in Castiel’s words, it would be nice to not be poked and prodded again for awhile. Dean drove to pick him up, letting the Impala idle while he waited in the parking lot.

There was a chance Castiel could get his cast off today. A chance, of course, meant that it was unlikely. He would more likely be fitted into a smaller cast, or some kind of brace. But Dean had his fingers crossed. The bindings had become beyond irritating for Castiel, itching him and wearing his patience thin with each and every shower. Castiel would growl in frustration every time he had to write or sign his name with his left hand. Even brushing his teeth had become tedious.

Sunlight reflected off the opening of the office door, and Dean looked up from his phone to discover Castiel there, waving, grinning, and flexing the fingers of his right hand. Dean leaned across to open the car door for him, greeted by a long, pale, cast-free arm that was shoved victoriously under his gaze.

“I see you got it off?” Dean said, smiling.

Castiel nodded, positively giddy. “The doctor kept emphasizing that I be careful with it, of course, but: it’s off! I can cook now, I can write now--I can drive again, Dean!”

“What, 'cause me driving you has been such a pain?”

“Yes, you’re awful and I hate spending time with you,” Castiel said, grinning and watching Dean’s reaction carefully. Dean chuckled softly, as he put the car into drive and made their way home.

It was almost a week now since Castiel had broken down. That night, they had made a deal: for every hard thing that was shared, they would share something good. And sometimes that something good was a slice of pie. Sometimes it was an outing on the tractor through the apple trees, catching sight of the knotted blooms of leaves eager to unveil themselves. It was slow going, of course, and often enough even the something good did little to combat the bitter taste in Dean’s mouth, did little to erase the haunting images filling up his mind as he listened to the things Castiel would tell him. Darkness, zip-ties around his wrists, tied to the back of the chair, hours of torture for reasons so unclear--revenge, anger--hatred. The only thing that either of them could conclude upon was hate and evil. It was incredibly unsatisfying.

On a whim one night, flipping channels, Dean had brushed past PBS when Castiel told him to stop and go back. The Russian ballet was performing  _Cinderella_. Castiel’s hand stilled over Dean’s, his eyes riveted to the screen. He could not look away, and hours later, when the ballet ended, Castiel cried himself to sleep on the couch. The next day, he had been stronger, almost the strongest he had been since before the incident. So that became their new something good. Music, art, and, at one point, dancing in the hall. It was difficult with Castiel’s leg, but they did it all the same, swaying gently to Billie Holiday. Castiel had buried himself close, but Dean’s eyes were wide open. Billie’s voice was chilling--beautiful, but chilling--and his stomach worked itself into knots, making his palms sweat and his heart pound.

They were taking steps: slow, intrepid steps. But Dean felt like he was stumbling. He was so focused on the path they were walking that he could barely see anything of the world they were trying to rebuild.

“You know...” Castiel said shyly after a moment. Dean took a deep breath, bringing himself around, and he glanced at Cas as forest blazed by outside the window.

“What?”

“The doctor said...” Castiel hesitated, chewing on his lip, flushing slightly. “The doctor said that I’ve recovered enough...”

Dean’s brow furrowed. “Enough?”

Castiel nodded, and Dean found himself smiling, confused. “For what?” He looked again at Castiel, only to notice how significant his gaze had become, how pink his cheeks were. Dean swallowed. “Oh.”

Castiel shook his head. “Dean, I didn’t mean to--”

“No, that’s--”

“--imply that we--”

“--good--”

“--should... it is?”

“What?”

“It’s good?”

“Yeah,” Dean said. “Well, to know, I mean. It’s good to know.”

Silence fell over the cab, only broken by Castiel’s quiet, “Oh.” Dean tightened his grip on the steering wheel, trying to ignore his adrenaline and just how tight and constraining his jeans suddenly felt against his body.

His body wanted Cas. There was no mistaking that, no change to his definite attraction to the other man after the events of the last month. Castiel was still magnetic, and Dean still hungered for his touch, missing him in the nights with nothing else to cling to but the back side of the couch. He missed him in the daylight, even as Castiel stood right in front of him. They would brush arms and hug each other, but it was still small compared to what he needed.

The situation was made worse by the fact that they were kissing now. Kissing did not provide any comfort--it simply made Dean feel even more uncomfortable in his skin and even less sure of his place. Dean still helped Cas into bed, although Castiel hadn’t needed that kind of physical aide in a while. Dean would lift the blankets around Castiel’s chin, brush his fingers over his cheekbones and through his hair. And then he would lean over, because he could not help himself, could not stop torturing himself, it seemed, and they kissed goodnight. Their lips were tender, unmotivated by a desire for action, but Castiel always wanted the kiss to go longer and Dean always broke away first. And then Cas would ask him to stay, and Dean would still,  _still_ , say no.

He found himself unable to sleep most nights, rolling over on the couch and staring into the dark. When he did sleep, he dreamed about Castiel being gone, he dreamed about Castiel in danger, about Castiel leaving again. He would gasp awake, paw at the tightness in his chest, and try to shut away the nightmares with the television. He wondered if Castiel had nightmares as often. He wondered if Castiel woke up and reached for him. Guilt rose like bile in his stomach. He just wanted to stop feeling guilty--he wanted to stop feeling.

Dean looked down at his lap; his phone had beeped a text from Sam. Dean opened and read it at a stoplight. “Sam wants to know if he and Bobby can come over for dinner. That alright?”

“Of course,” Castiel said.

Dean handed over his phone. “Can you text him back for me?”

Castiel accepted it, grinning, because he could actually do that now with very little trouble. He thumbed clumsily across the keys as the light turned green. “I don’t understand how you can still use number pads to type.”

Dean shrugged. “My fingers are too fat for your fancy touch-screen.”

“I disagree--you have very nice hands.”

Dean shook his head, letting any innuendo roll off his back because he had to, as they rounded the corner. Castiel bounded up the porch steps when they arrived--bounded as much as he could still burdened with a bum knee and a cane--and he rushed ahead of Dean to turn the key with one hand and open the door with another. He pushed and held it open, grinning, flexing the fingers on his right hand once again. “It’s so grabby now!”

“Yeah well, watch what you grab,” Dean grumbled back, letting Cas close the door, watching him stroll into the kitchen.

“Right now, I’m going to use it to grab a pot-- _I’m_ cooking tonight.”

\----------------------------

Bobby and Sam’s visit brought with them, as always, good company. They all congratulated Castiel on not just the removal of his cast, but on his having prepared such a delicious meal as well. Knives cut deep into marinated steak, and for a long while nothing was heard but the sounds of contented chewing. Eventually, however, Sam spoke. “So, you and Cas should swing by Harvelle and Sons soon, whenever you get a moment.”

“Oh yeah? Why’s that?” Dean asked.

Castiel looked up, and Sam continued. “Well, you two are going to have to sign a new contract for the farm.”

Castiel frowned deeply, and Dean looked at his brother, confused. “What do you mean?”

“It’s not really a rush thing obviously, unless you want it to be, but, technically Cas doesn’t really own it.”

Castiel set his fork down loudly, and Dean shook his head. “What are you talking about?”

“Well, I mean--” Sam suddenly looked very self-conscious. He blinked between Dean and Castiel, confused at their reactions, holding out his hands to placate them. “It’s really not a big deal or anything because it’s not like Dean’s gonna sue--”

“Sam.” Dean said, staring hard at his brother.

“It’s the name. Allen. Castiel signed his contract under Allen. So technically, it’s null and void.” Sam paused, then rushed to add, “If you wanted it to be, obviously, which you don’t. It’s just good to fix this kind of stuff on paper, you know? So no one can question it.”

Dean’s eyes flicked across the table to Castiel, who looked back at him darkly. “So,” Castiel said eventually, very quiet. “Who owns the house?”

A hard silence fell over the room as Sam sat back slightly. “Oh. Um.” He clearly hadn’t thought of that. And neither had Dean.

Castiel’s gaze drifted to his plate, and Dean stared at him, his skin glowing in the yellow light, the candles Castiel had lit bouncing their light against the walls. Dean opened his mouth, but he didn’t know what to say. He felt like he couldn’t hear anything except his own heart, thrumming faster and faster and faster until he felt dizzy. Castiel didn’t own the land. He didn’t own the house.

There was literally nothing to keep him here.

Eventually, Bobby leaned forward. He looked at Castiel and said carefully, “You do, son. You own the house. We’ll get Ellen to draw you up a new contract, and it’ll be fixed in a jiffy, alright? Now then--Sam. You brought the poker chips. If we’re all done with dinner, I say let’s clean up and get a game going.”

Blessed Bobby--blessed, brilliant, kind Bobby, who caught Dean’s eyes warmly and gave him a comforting wink, trying to soothe the edges and fold the ties back into place. He helped Dean clean the dishes in the sink while Sam and Castiel set up the poker in the dining room. They played six rounds that night, before, yawning, Bobby made a comment about old-timers needing their rest, and that he and Sam should head back.

Gathered in the living room, buttoning up their coats to leave, Bobby turned to Castiel and started asking about the restaurant, which left Dean and Sam alone to wander out onto the porch, determinedly clutching the remains of their cold beers in gloveless hands. They were silent for a long time, gazing out at the stars, watching their breath spiral away from their lips. Eventually, Sam spoke, his voice very careful. “Dean, is everything ok?”

Dean took a deep breath, the air biting his lungs. “I don’t know, Sam.”

Sam looked back at his brother, his brow creased in concern. “What’s going on?”

“I just...” Dean shook his head, setting his feet to motion down the porch steps, hearing his brother follow. “I don’t... I don’t think this is working.”

“What happened? I mean--” Sam grimaced. “Besides what happened.”

Dean turned back to look at him. “Isn’t that enough?”

“I don’t understand.”

“He doesn’t trust me, Sam.”

Sam stared at him. “Did he tell you that?”

“No. No, he didn’t tell me that. He won’t tell me anything.”

“He won’t talk about his ordeal?”

“Well--no--he talks about that. That’s not what I’m saying. I’m saying he doesn’t trust me.”

Sam did not say anything, and Dean waited. Finally, Sam asked. “Do you trust him?”

Dean sighed and shook his head. “That’s not the point.”

“Do you love him?”

“Sammy--”

“Do you?”

Dean licked his lips, looking up at the night sky and finally answering, “I don’t know anymore.” His throat clenched at the words, and he finally tipped the rest of his beer back, unable to say anything else.

Behind them, the front door opened, and Bobby and Castiel stepped out, still talking, pulling their coats tightly around their chests. Sam nodded in Bobby’s direction, then leaned close to his brother’s ear, saying low, “You need to talk to him.”

“I can’t, Sammy. He’s been through so much, he’s still recovering--”

Sam flattened his mouth. “Do it sooner rather than later.” Sam hesitated. He looked at Dean meaningfully, and pressed his hand against his brother’s shoulder. “Dean, I don’t know what you’re going through. All I know is that, just a month ago, you were the happiest that I have ever seen you. And I’m pretty sure you made him happy too.”

Dean shut his eyes as Sam finished. “That’s what I saw. So you know, for what it’s worth.”

Dean nodded, and took his brother’s empty beer from him, a lump set squarely in his throat. Sam and Bobby hugged him goodbye, but Dean couldn’t speak. He could only wave, blinking away a heavy weight under the moonlight.

As Bobby’s car trundled out of view, Castiel shivered next to him. “Bobby’s on board to start up whenever we need him--although he is fairly adamant that we hire a sous-chef that’s not you.” He smiled at the joke and nudged Dean, turning to go inside. But when Dean didn’t laugh or move, Castiel stopped.

“Are you alright?”

“I’m fine...” Dean said quietly. He couldn’t blame Cas for not believing him.

“No, you’re not.” Castiel looked at him, frowning deeply.

By this time, Dean had managed to shake himself, managed to shove Sam’s comment from his mind and the memories it had brought back. Memories that were almost blinding in their happiness, in their optimism; God, but he had been so fucking happy. So fixed his jaw into a thin-lipped smile, and he passed Castiel, making his way back inside.

Castiel followed, heavy lines creasing his brow as he shut the door behind them. They shook off their coats, and Dean was almost to the kitchen when Castiel spoke loudly. “Dean, I honestly did not think about any problems in signing that contract--it was stupid of me. I just... I never wanted to be anyone other than Castiel Allen ever again.”

Dean turned around, halfway to the kitchen, momentarily dumbstruck. “What?”

“I didn’t think for one  _second_  I would ever be putting you in the position you’re now in--but we’re here. And you don’t need to worry about the money I’ve invested, I know that’s good. The house is yours if you want it--the land as well--”

“Cas what the hell are you talking about--” Dean felt cold, like he was still standing outside, his numb fingers clutching the bottles tightly.

“I won’t make you give something you don’t want to give, Dean. You want the land, fine.”

“I don’t--I don’t want the land, Cas! What, you don’t want it anymore?”

“No! I love it here! But if you’re upset about it then--”

“I’m not upset about it, Cas!”

“You very clearly are!”

“No, I am not!” Dean spun around angrily and continued back through the hall to drop the bottles off in the recycling, but he never made it. Instead, he whirled around in the doorway to the mudroom and stared at Castiel, who had followed him into the kitchen. “I’m not upset about that, Cas!”

“Well then, what  _are_  you upset about?”

Dean hesitated to answer. “I’m not upset.”

“Dean--!” Castiel bit his lip and stared hard at the floor. His gaze fell on the empty beer bottles still clutched in Dean’s fingers. Castiel hobbled forward with his cane and snatched the bottles from Dean’s hand, snapping angrily, “You wash them out first.”

He made his way to the sink, tossing them in the basin loudly and turning on the water. After a long moment, Castiel took a deep breath. He spoke very carefully, trying to keep his voice level. “Please. Tell me what are you upset about.”

“I’m not upset about anything, Cas.”

Castiel exhaled heavily and dropped his head, his hands stilling as he ran the water through each bottle, turning them upside down. Dean raised his arms, shaking his head in confusion. “What, now you’re pissed that I’m not pissed?”

“No, Dean, you are!” Castiel snapped the water off and turned to look at Dean, his eyes wide and desperate. “You are, and you have been for a long time. You are so  _angry_  with me, and I can’t do this anymore! I can’t play this game where I wait for you to talk to me about it, where I’m just sitting here, crossing my fingers and hoping that one day you’ll forgive me!”

“Cas, just hang on--”

“Dean, what else do you want me to do?” Castiel held up his hands, his eyes wide. “I can’t change the past, believe me--believe me, if I could--”

Dean took a deep breath, shaking. “I know you can’t, Cas--”

“If I could change it, I would. If I could go back in time--”

“Cas--”

“And run up those stairs and tell you, stop myself from walking out the door, go back in time and stop my father from doing everything he did,  _goddamn_  it Dean, I would do it! But I can’t!”

“I know that, Cas!”

“When are you going to believe in me again?” Castiel stared at him, his shoulders heaving as he said, “When are you going to forgive me?”

“Cas, I--” Dean stopped and stuttered. “I’m  _trying_ , Cas.”

“Well try harder!” Cas snapped. He turned back to the sink and then suddenly looked around again. “What do you think of me anyway? Do you see me as some kind of villain? You don’t even believe me when I say I love you, and I do, Dean. I love you so much, and yes, I messed up, but I shouldn’t have to fight for you to believe me!”

Dean opened his mouth, but Castiel didn’t let him speak.

“Dean you’re  _all_  I thought about-- _you_. I didn’t think I would ever see you again and I know that this is all my fault, I know that _I_ did this, but you have to forgive me, Dean, please--you have to forgive me!”

“Cas--please--let me say something!”

So Cas did. His shoulders were heaving and his eyes watering. He shut his mouth, and stared at Dean, and waited. The wheels spun in Dean’s head, and words appeared in his mouth and none of them were right--none of them were even close to good enough--none of them were what he needed to say. “Cas--” he began, and then nothing. “Cas, I...”

Castiel leaned his head back. He swallowed roughly, and then grabbed his cane. “Well when you figure it out...” He crossed the room, his cane hitting the ground hard, echoing through the kitchen as he shouldered past Dean, made his way down the hall, and up the stairs.

Dean stood alone in the kitchen, and the world spun beneath him.  _Fine_ , he thought madly, nothing making sense. Fine. He swung around through the mudroom and out the side door. He fumbled in his pocket for his keys and dropped them to the ground, bending to find them again, to throw them against the garage where they clattered against the metal and fell away, invisible in the dark. Dean didn’t want to leave--he didn’t want to stay--he didn’t know what he wanted and he couldn’t stand this purgatory he had put himself in. He couldn’t move on. He didn’t know how to grip a hold of himself, much less grip a hold of forgiveness.

He wanted Cas. He wanted air. He wanted nothing. He wanted to go back in time, and Cas was right because they couldn’t. There was no way to change what had happened, what they had done. What everyone had done. What everyone always did. He had almost lost Castiel and Dean couldn’t bear the thought of it happening again, the thought alone made him want to scream and rip out his heart so it wouldn’t feel anymore. Dean wanted nothing but Castiel, wanted nothing but the sound of his laughter and the feel of his skin. Castiel did not deserve to be condemned, he did not deserve Dean’s ire. But it was Dean’s shield, Dean’s safety, and it seemed all he could give.

Dean sank heavy on the ground, the cold, frigid night surrounding him.  _Forgive_ , he thought; he pleaded with himself to forgive. Dean’s mind was fumbling, tripping on excuses and anger and none of it was worth it. He didn’t want to be lost anymore.

Slowly, he wiped his eyes and stood. He stole himself, and he moved back inside, back into the light and the warmth...

_Forgive him._

He took off his shoes and he walked to the stairs. The light was on in the bathroom, and as he neared, he could hear the sound of the shower...

_Forgive him._

Dean thought of Sam, and the words Sam had said long ago as Dean puzzled over love.  _Nobody’s perfect_ , Sam had said.  _You just have to decide if you’re ever gonna be ok with that._  Dean thought he had understood that day, sitting on the couch and thinking about Castiel. He thought he had understood, the day that he rushed downstairs to kiss Castiel, to tell him he wanted to go for it.

But the truth was, he hadn’t understood. Not until now.

He opened the door slowly, the steam hitting his face and the sound of the water thunderous. Castiel’s clothes were in a pile on the floor, his leg brace empty and folded beside them. Dean undid his shirt. He undid his jeans, pulled off his socks, his underwear. He stood naked in the room, and wondered if Castiel would even let him in. Because he had to know Dean was there--the door had opened and closed, and everything stood still.

Dean walked forward. He hesitated, and he gently peeled back the curtain, as if he were knocking. He looked around, and saw Castiel standing under the torrent of water, his hands folded under his chin. Castiel looked up, and Dean felt his heart stop; they connected in that space, eyes trying to say what their words no longer could, if words alone ever could. Dean waited, and, after a long second, Castiel held out his hand.

Dean took it.

He stepped across the threshold of the tub, each still holding the other’s gaze. In the bright white light of the bathroom, in the glittering reflections of the endless white tile, Dean could see every little scar on Castiel’s skin. He could see the new and the old. The circles under his eyes, the lines beside his mouth. He could see the pink skin under sections of his regrowing hair, pink from the stitches that had been pulled out weeks ago. He could see the outline of the cuts and scrapes on Castiel’s arms, white lines on his knuckles, formed when he had been thrown from the car, formed when his father had hit him over and over again. Dean’s eyes traced the hair on Castiel’s chest, the hair around his nipples, the hair that trailed down between his legs. Two purple lines scored the left side of his ribcage, one ripped open by a knife to kill him, the other plunged deep by doctors to save him. Dean reached out and trailed his fingers over each, dotting his thumb across Castiel’s breast, letting his palm settle over the steady, brilliant, thumping of his heart. Such a good _, good_  heart.

All of him was vulnerable--every last bit of him. They both were.

Dean bent down, and he pressed his lips against Castiel’s heart, feeling the skin jump beneath him. He pressed his lips against the scars on Castiel’s ribs, and he kissed each spot on Castiel’s chest where he had seen the doctors place the heart monitoring wires. He kissed the scar on Castiel’s chin, the one he had earned when he was two by falling down onto the cement. He kissed the lines by Castiel’s eyes, the lines he gained by laughing, by smiling, by squinting at Dean in confusion when Dean made a completely missed reference to  _Star Trek_. Dean got down on his knees, and he dipped his head to kiss the jagged, red line above Castiel’s knee. He ran his hands up Castiel’s thighs tenderly, and he straightened to kiss Castiel’s penis, growing with each caress, to kiss the flesh above and around it. Dean slowly stood, taking Castiel’s hands in his own, kissing each and every finger, each and every knuckle. And when he was done, he opened his eyes and leaned in, dipping his lips into the heat of Castiel’s mouth, and sighed into him.

Castiel responded, slowly, sliding his hands up Dean’s chest and tilting his head, opening their mouths and flicking his tongue out against Dean’s, reaching out to pull it against his own. They moved slowly, earnestly, breath catching on each other’s cheeks and soft moans falling from their lips as they built, and built, and built. They did not part, breathing heavy against the steam of the shower, fighting for the oxygen to stay standing as they crept closer and closer together, until Dean could feel the press of Castiel’s cock against him, until he felt himself grind forward into the friction of Castiel’s hip. Dean groaned, his hands sliding urgently along the flesh of Castiel’s face, anxious in his desire. He broke away only to look at Cas, to catch his eyes, before he returned again, and again, and again.

Castiel reached between them. He took a hold of Dean’s cock, his wet hand clutching into a circle as he slid up and down, just enough and just for a moment. Dean leaned his head back, trying to breathe and not gasp. He returned the motion against Cas, fisting his hand around him, and it was good, but it wasn’t enough. It wasn’t nearly what he wanted, and so he leaned away, took Castiel’s hands in his own, and turned around.

For a moment he saw the confusion in Castiel’s eyes, the growing hurt and fear that was suddenly replaced when Dean, facing the wall, returned those hands to his hips, and backed himself slowly into Cas.

Castiel breathed in hard, shocked, as his fingers tripped up Dean’s back and shoulders. He clutched around Dean’s chest, and, after hesitating a long moment, took a hand and moved himself into the tight space of Dean’s cheeks.

Dean sighed and dropped his head, feeling Castiel slowly rub up and down, feeling the balance of their stance as Castiel clutched Dean’s back into his chest, helping them to stand; Cas was moving himself with only one good leg. Dean listened to Castiel’s breathing, shuddering deeper and deeper, and Dean moaned when Castiel found a way to circle fingers around Dean’s cock and pump slowly with the simple, steady rhythm of his own thrusts.

Dean felt the teasing pressure against his hold, felt the raw build up of frustration within him, and wanted, more than anything, for Castiel to fuck him. For Castiel to tear him open and fall inside, taking them far away. Dean grunted, and twitched himself into Castiel harder. Castiel pulled away, unsure, so Dean turned around and kissed him intently, once again guiding Castiel’s hands around, this time to his ass, clenching at his cheeks and pulling them apart.

They pressed together and Dean kissed him again and again, willing him to understand, because he didn’t think he could say it. He didn’t think he could say anything. And eventually, when he moved his hands back up to Castiel’s hair, burying them there, he moaned in satisfaction when Castiel dipped a finger low and pressed against his entrance.

Dean nodded, groaning when Castiel pressed again, and Dean thrust his hips hard into Castiel, his heart bursting at the feel of their cocks once again together, once again seeking relief in each other. He widened his stance so that Castiel could have better access, could go deeper--and he did. It was raw and intrusive, and Dean’s hole was screaming without lubrication but Dean hummed into it, his hands anchoring themselves against Castiel’s ass as his hips circled and rolled.

Cas worked his whole finger in, pressing hard, making Dean cry out with the bite because he wanted it so badly, making Dean shudder when Castiel moved and rotated and then suddenly found it, the spot he’d been aiming for, the spot engorged with lust that made Dean whimper to feel it touched, for the first time in his life to have someone land against that spot and linger there, circling against it.

Dean felt like his legs were going to fall, like he was unable to stand. His shoulders quivered and his breathing was so unsteady, so uneven. They had to move. Without saying a word, Castiel removed himself from Dean, moving slowly so as not to hurt him. He rinsed his hand in the water, then shut off the valve and pulled back the curtain.

Dean stepped out, feeling dizzy. He found Castiel’s leg brace and slid it back on over Castiel’s wet skin, knowing they should probably wait until his skin was dry but he couldn’t. Cas grabbed his cane, and, staring at each other, they walked out of the bathroom, through the hall, and into the bedroom.

Dean laid himself down flat on the bed, his cock trapped between his body and the comforter, making his hips hump down. He closed his eyes, burying his face into the bed as he heard Castiel fumble at their nightstand, heard the crinkle of a condom wrapper and the lubricant cap opening. Warm hands returned to Dean, sliding palms up and down his back, their wet skin tingling together. Castiel leaned forward and grabbed a pillow, nudging up on Dean’s hips until he obeyed, and Cas stuffed the pillow beneath him.

Dean did not have time to feel self conscious at his exposure, because in moments he felt Castiel’s fingertips at his cheeks, lifting and squeezing them apart, and then he felt the warmth of Castiel’s tongue against his hole.

Dean jumped a little, surprised, but quickly shut his eyes and bit his lips, his stomach trembling as he leaned his head down and back again, hot air catching gently in his throat, music against the lapping and kissing of Castiel’s tongue, Castiel’s lips. “Cas,” Dean whispered, the name the only thing he could fathom. He felt his mind growing white and gray, losing all sense when Castiel leaned away to pour more lubricant against Dean and tuck not one, but two fingers deep within him, hooking them down.

Dean heaved, his hips shifting, spreading his legs so Cas could go deeper, go in more, press even harder against him, make the whimpers pouring from Dean’s voice louder and louder. “Cas,” he said again, moaning out the name, dragging it out as long as he could, as long as Castiel’s fingers circled and splayed within him, darting up and down, up and down. Dean tried to mumble more, he tried to speak, but he didn’t know how to say words. He worked his hips against the pillow, thrusting his cock up and down, feeling the slide of Castiel’s hand within him, and he knew he could come like this. Which was not what he wanted.

“Cas, get in me--!” he finally gasped.

Castiel’s fingers stilled, and, after a long moment, he dragged them slowly out. Dean shut his eyes, his breath bating, waiting for the feel of him, for the burn and stretch of Castiel’s cock, when he felt a hand on his shoulder.

“Turn around,” Castiel said gently.

So Dean did. He turned on his back, the pillow still beneath him, his body shivering in the cold and the sweat. Castiel leaned over him, balancing himself delicately on his arms and his one good leg. He found Dean’s eyes, and everything in Dean stilled to a stop; Castiel was breathtaking. He leaned down to capture Dean’s lips, and Dean opened his legs, feeling Castiel drop against him and grind. They panted together, riding each other hard, until Castiel broke away, leaning back to position himself, to wrap the condom and more lubricant down his straining length.

He almost lost his balance, so Dean held out his hands and pushed up, taking on part of Castiel’s weight as he watched Cas slide his tip against Dean’s entrance. Castiel hesitated and nudged Dean’s legs, so Dean opened up further, as wide as he comfortably could, leaning his knees back and tilting his ass up. Castiel nodded, and this time, when he pressed himself against Dean, he pushed in.

Castiel gasped loudly, and Dean cried out. He could feel his body reaching up and sucking Castiel in and down, swallowing him up, inhaling the stretch and the pull and the hot, burning drag within him, notching Castiel all the way down until they fit together. For a moment neither one of them moved. They drank air as if it could steady them, but the room was spinning and Dean needed more, and Cas needed more, and suddenly Castiel began to move.

He dropped his arms down around Dean’s shoulders, rolling his body into deeper and deeper thrusts. He worked his angle, and when the cries leaving Dean’s throat became even louder, he bent to his elbows, grounded himself in, and caught Dean’s lips with his own.

Dean clutched at Castiel’s back; he tried to reach Castiel’s ass to beckon him further in, to make him push harder. His tongue ricocheted against Castiel’s and their mouths bounced in their rhythm. “Faster,” he mumbled when their lips split. “Faster, Cas--” his words caught in his throat and twisted into moans.

Castiel obeyed, his arms shaking with the weight so again Dean helped, flattening a hand against his chest and trying to move his hips, trying to learn the rhythm without sputtering in pleasure. He didn’t know what to do except cry out, groan, and bite at Castiel’s lips, sucking them within his own. Three words sat and spiraled in his vision, three words that enveloped them, even unsaid, and knit themselves together back around his heart.

Dean opened his eyes and found Castiel staring back down. He wanted to be closer, he had to be closer, but they simply couldn’t be--they were encased together and Castiel’s back was arching high and deep, moving in and out with such fucking beautiful grace. Grace in his injury, grace in spite of his injury--grace still amongst pain and wounds unseen.

“Cas--” Dean’s voice caught. “I--” He choked on his air. “I think I’m--”

Castiel suddenly shifted his weight to the left--Dean countered with a palm--and then Dean cried out when the heat of Castiel’s fingers gripped his cock.

Dean’s hips burst up--he was no longer in control. He was making sounds he had never made before and Castiel was working him hard and fast from every angle, and Dean was going to explode, to die from the fire building low within him, building everywhere, shooting out to his limbs to his fingers and burning his brain--

“Cas!” He cried, and then he was gone. He came in spirals and in knots, twisting and untwisting, undone and flying. He came for forever, and when he thought he was done, he shuddered and somehow Castiel’s thrusts pulled more from within, Dean’s body rocking and wrapping itself over and over until he had nothing left.

And when Dean could see again, he found Castiel’s gaze and knitted his hands numbly around Castiel’s face, stroking his thumbs across his cheeks as Castiel moved, slow at first, then harder and harder, grunting, his eyes working themselves shut, his mouth opening and closing around his breaths. And then suddenly, his breath became a sound, long and heavy, that bounced off the walls of their room and settled deep within Dean’s chest. Dean watched him come, felt his hips shuddering in his throes, pumping in and out and working himself mad. Then Castiel breathed again; he stilled his motions and his shoulders shook, and he turned his head in Dean’s hands to kiss his palms.

Cas thrust once more, twice more, whimpering deep and closing his eyes, and Dean marveled; Castiel had come inside him. If he hadn’t been wearing a condom, Dean would have felt it, felt every bit of light and life filling him up, making him whole. Dean couldn’t breathe.

Castiel couldn’t hold himself up any longer--his limbs were over-exerted, and he suddenly collapsed over Dean. He tried to steer himself but was unsuccessful, shoving air out from their lungs as their bellies crashed together. He managed to roll to the side, and Dean grunted in displeasure when Castiel was pulled out of him.

Dean followed his course, turning and wrapping every limb he had around Cas, feeling completely sluggish, almost drugged. Dean was shaking, panting--they both were. He tried to find Castiel’s eyes, his lips, but it was so difficult to move.

“Dean...” Cas said weakly.

Dean moved his head, blinking hard until he found him. He reached up a hand a dragged it clumsily across Castiel’s cheek. Castiel pet Dean’s chest, his fingers trailing down and settling themselves in the come that painted both their bellies. Castiel looked at Dean, his eyes unfocused. “Are you alright?”

Dean nodded slowly. “Yes...” He was. He leaned himself up on an elbow, dizzied, peering down at Castiel. He needed to say something. “Cas,” He paused, licking his lips, finding the air with which to speak. “Cas, I’m so sorry. I have been such shit to you.”

Castiel, looking dazed, leaned back to smile up at Dean. “You haven’t been shit.”

“Yes, I have. I...” Dean shook his head, his voice small and shaking. “Cas, I was scared.”

Castiel’s smile fell slightly, and he lifted his fingers to Dean’s cheek, brushing a thumb over his lips. Dean darted out his tongue to taste himself there. “Dean, I broke your trust. I ran from you, when all you had ever done was accept me. I didn’t know what to do, Dean. I have never felt like this before, about  _anyone_.” He gently shook his head. “I was scared too. But I promise, I will never break your trust again.” He swallowed. “If you’ll let me have it.”

Dean’s lips trembled, and he bent down, kissing Castiel deeply, burying his hands in Castiel’s hair.

“I just wanted to start over so badly,” Castiel said when Dean pulled away. “I didn’t understand how to do that. But you offered it to me. You have such a big heart, Dean, and I don’t deserve it. You have the best heart--I love that heart so much.”

Dean’s lips trembled, and he squeezed his eyes shut, dropping his head into Castiel’s neck, and breathed him in. “Cas...” he said, shaking, unable to meet Castiel’s eyes, unable to stand anything but the safety of the dark. “Cas, you left me.”

He felt Castiel’s hands reach out around him, very still, resting on his shoulders. “I know. I’m so sorry.”

“Don’t leave me again, Cas, please.”

“I won’t, Dean.”

“But you will!” Dean finally pulled his head up into the cold, fresh air, blinking back tears and rolling away from Cas, chasing the darkness of his heart. Castiel followed him, moving with Dean and tucking himself back between his legs, bracing his elbows on either side of Dean’s head and looking down at him, intent. “Dean: I won’t.”

“Everyone does...” Dean said, so quietly. He slid his gaze over to Castiel’s and wished that he hadn’t, because Castiel was looking at him with such warmth, such concern, such  _love_ , that Dean felt out of control. “Everyone leaves, Cas. Everyone--my mom, my brother left, my dad may as well have left--and then you... And what does saying ‘I love you’ even matter when everyone just leaves me anyway?”

Castiel looked at him, seeming lost at sea and unprepared. He blinked several times, and then finally tilted his head and said kindly, beautifully. “Dean: it matters because it’s true. I say I love you because it’s true.”

“I can’t lose you again, Cas. I can’t bear it.”

“Dean, I am not going anywhere.”

Dean stared up at Castiel. “Will you stay?”

Castiel’s brow creased, and he bent down and kissed Dean again and again and again, whispering between each, “I’m staying, Dean. I’ll stay.” He pulled back and leaned himself higher over Dean. “I’ll stay...” He kissed his eyes. “For as long as you’ll have me...” He kissed his nose. “And even when you’re sick of me, I’ll stick around just to annoy you, because I like doing that.”

Castiel smiled, and Dean let out a watery laugh, bringing a hand up to his eyes, nodding that he understood. Castiel let himself sink down completely over Dean, notching his arms around Dean’s neck and Dean held him close. Dean buried his fingertips into Castiel’s shoulders, running them up to his hair.

“Do you believe me?” asked Castiel, muffled in the bed beneath them.

“Yes,” Dean breathed.

Castiel lifted himself, looking back down at Dean. “Good. Because I love you. I  _love_  you. You gave me a future. I never had one before, not ever. And now--with you, in this place--I want it with you.” He paused, and then said again, “Do you believe me?”

Dean nodded, almost unable to voice his, “Yes.”

“You kept me alive, and you keep me going, Dean. You saved me.”

“You saved me, too,” Dean whispered quietly, and then he spoke the truth. “I love you...”

They locked eyes, and Dean said it again. “I love you so fucking much.”

Breathless seconds passed, and then their lips joined together, parting to echo each sentiment again and again. Each word, each kiss, was an affirmation. Dean was laughing, and Castiel was laughing, and they were moving together. Castiel’s body crashed against him, Castiel’s lips kissed every inch of him, and Castiel was  _here_. They were both here, and neither of them were going anywhere. Dean finally believed.

Safe here in this room, in this house, in the arms of the greatest person he had ever known, Dean felt the past lift from his chest--every last, aching bit of it. Every last glance in anger from his father, every unfinished conversation with his mother, the moment he was left alone by his brother. Alone, like he never would be again. Neither he nor Cas would ever be alone. They had each other, they had the orchard, and they had belief--belief in something brilliant, something bright, a light in the dark that beckoned them onward and beckoned them home.


	22. Finale

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Epilogue: As time goes by.

Winter eventually gives way to spring, although not without a fight. Not without a few more snowstorms and one final, freak blizzard in the first weeks of April. But it does eventually relinquish its hold, letting the blossoms of leaves unfurl on the trees, letting the animals come out into the sun. Once again the mountains of Vermont rise and fall in great beauty, more beautiful as the years pass.

The restaurant flourishes as the apples grow in the trees, and the pies become known as the best pies in the town. The two men who run the orchard would not go so far as to call it a fixture in the community, but their apples sell out twice as fast as their competitors at the local markets, and they are never wanting for business. It is a small utopia, and if one were to travel just a town over, no one would probably have heard a thing about them. But they like it that way.

Dean and Castiel planted their garden by the side of the house. It blooms brilliantly every summer, and they always have fresh vegetables. In the winter, when the snow-drifts cascade over the mountain and their garden withers till the next season, the first things to burst into life are the little, yellow daffodils Castiel planted by the front porch. They herald the spring, every year more and more plentiful.

The flowers carry through the house, framed in little portraits that still hang on the walls. They are overshadowed by the vase near the door, where a pipe-cleaner bouquet featuring classic cars catches most people’s attention. Dean smiles when someone notices it--he doesn’t mind explaining how it came to be, although Castiel rolls his eyes. “It’s not that big of a deal,” Castiel says, but Dean assures him that yes, it is.

“I’m pretty sure it’s the reason we’re together.”

“Oh, yes? How is that?”

“I knew you were good with your hands.” Dean winks outrageously, grinning at Castiel’s mock affront.

Their home is comfortable, and they make improvements each year to combat the cold winters, which Castiel never really adjusts to. He laments Vermont’s latitude, and talks about picking up the entire town of Bennington and moving it south. Castiel’s cane rests by the door, only used when the winter’s bite is cold and Castiel’s knee plagues him, proof that the ghosts of the past never fade completely.

They live together, they work together. They fight over stupid things, and they dance every evening. Dean makes Castiel dance to  _The Joker_  by the Steve Miller Band, spinning Castiel around by the stairs, waltzing their way through the whole of the house. Dean leans in and sings along, sending chills down Castiel’s spine as he purrs the guitar cat-call into his ear.

He suspects they might be that completely nauseating couple that he vowed he would never one day be a part of; he finds he doesn’t care.

He wonders at how they deserved each other--how they ever wound up in this place. The question that now drives the deepest terror into his gut is not if Castiel will stay, but, what if they had never met. What if none of this had happened. When Dean asks this quietly one night, Castiel looks up at him and shakes his head. “I would have found you anyway.”

“Yeah, but, how? The only reason I came here is because my father died. And the only reason we met is because I had to sell the land, and the only reason I had to sell the land is because there was a five-year drought that was too hard to recover from. Do you realize how lucky we are?”

Castiel looks at him seriously. “Everyday, Dean.”

They are silent for a long time, before Castiel kisses him very promptly. “Still. Even if none of that had happened--I would have found you anyway.”

Dean smiles. “Yeah?”

“Yes. You’re my soul mate, and soul-mates find each other.”

“You know a lot about this stuff, huh?”

“No, I just know a lot about you.”

“Same difference.”

They grin at each other, join hands and lips, and then their voices take a completely different tune for the next twenty minutes or so.

Still, Dean thinks about chance and fate. He still sometimes thinks about his father, and, if his father were somehow still alive, what would he have thought of all of this? It hits Dean at odd times: when he’s elbow deep in cleaning the leaves from the gutters or trekking outside to change a blown fuse. He will suddenly remember the sound of his father’s laughter in the hall, or his mother standing on the porch, singing to Sam. Dean wonders, what would his parents think of this life that Dean has created? This strange, unconventional, wonderful little life?

Dean will never know, of course. And it does not matter what their fathers would have thought, or what their mothers would have thought. Castiel’s father did his very best to take the light from his son, and yet here Castiel is. And Dean’s father--Dean has long since forgiven his father. Dean and Castiel move on. Together, the pair of them, intertwined beneath the sheets, walking in well-learned patterns in the restaurant, bending down between the boughs of the apple-trees for a kiss. They move and heal together. 

The violence of their life, the violence of their history, is sometimes overwhelming. It is not hard to sometimes believe that their family must be cursed, and that perhaps none of this is to last. That the runic inscriptions on Dean’s mother were something more than just the crazed designs of a madman, but a spell to darken this house forever. But if that were true, if that really were true, then how could Castiel be beside him now? The endless amounts of ways life has turned them on their ends, and yet still, they stand.

Broken pieces are not the summation of a life. Broken people can be fixed, they can be mended. They can stand under the boughs of an orchard, the flowers of spring falling on their heads. They can stand next to a brother, all of their friends, the whole of their little makeshift family, and exchange rings under the sun. They can exchange names and be each others’, starting anew each and every day if they choose it. And they do. They choose it, and they choose each other. They clasp hands and climb up, growing and shifting, until the wind that once knocked them down no longer holds sway. They  _remain_. The sun shines, the rain falls, and they grow tall again.


End file.
